


The Long Way Around

by hope91



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Doubt, F/M, Ghosts, M/M, Undying Lands, Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 41,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4209408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope91/pseuds/hope91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Centuries after passing on to the dwarven Halls of Waiting, Gimli is tasked with one final quest in the Undying Lands – escorting a lingering mortal spirit to his immortal Love, in the hope that amends can be made and both can find closure and peace. Along the way, Gimli is reminded of the finality of separation from his dearest friend – and eventually realizes he can deny his heart no longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Thank you to [hideincarnate](http://hideincarnate.livejournal.com/profile) for the art and the helpful story suggestions! (tumblr: [freetilltheendoftheline](http:/freetilltheendoftheline.tumblr.com/))  
> (and also to my beta and telemachus for the help!)
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://s48.photobucket.com/user/hideincarnate/media/gigolas%20bigbang%202015%20art%20overlay%20filter_zpsinyxn73j.jpg.html)  
>   
>   
>   
> "Still round the corner there may wait  
> A new road or a secret gate  
> And though I oft have passed them by  
> A day will come at last when I  
> Shall take the hidden paths that run  
> West of the Moon, East of the Sun.”  
> \--JRR Tolkien (Frodo, LOTR)

When he’d positioned his worktable before the rare garden view framed by his chamber window, his fellow dwarves whispered about the preferences of _hobbits_ and _elves_ – but mostly _elves_. Yet reactions of judgmental surprise were a rarity now, diminishing as his folk realized that he was most certainly a _dwarf_ through and through, regardless of acquired tastes and relatively uncommon inclinations. After all, he was not the only dwarf across the annals of history to befriend an elf – and like any dwarrow or dwarrowdam, the specifics of his friendships were not his sole defining attribute.

At this moment Gimli sat at said worktable, sending occasional glances at the flowers and trees beyond as he fiddled with the contents of one of his most treasured possessions, a small stone container riddled with novice errors. Crafted by Legolas upon his third visit to Aglarond, it was a priceless keepsake that Gimli would never willingly relinguish, perfect in its imperfection as it was.

The original was safely held by Gimli’s hands as he lay within his tomb, placed there by Legolas as his own fingers had trembled with the weight of his loss. He’d known how dearly Gimli had cherished the relatively mundane gift, the dwarf having packed it when they’d sailed following Aragorn’s death. Legolas had never asked to see what was held within, yet he suspected it was filled with various tiny trinkets Gimli had collected during their travels in Middle-Earth and the Undying Lands. Upon Gimli’s entombment the elf could have filled it even more fully with his tears, flowing as they had in their near-unending manner as but a small reflection of the depth of his sorrow. 

The box – and all else that had been placed within Gimli’s tomb – was within his chambers when he awoke in Mahal’s mansions, a replica of sorts granted by his Maker, the same grace granted to any dwarf who was fortunate enough to be entombed in stone as dwarven ways and customs dictated.

Legolas regularly visited his dearest friend’s final resting place, each time planting something new in the surrounding garden after he’d placed a stone at the tomb’s entrance, the former his own desire, the latter a solemn tradition of Durin’s folk. It was this ever-increasing pile of stones and the garden beyond that Gimli now caught glimpses of, though both could only be partially seen, and certainly not grasped or otherwise perceived. 

Yet Gimli sat before his _window-that-wasn’t_ not only to appreciate the juxtaposed floral and stone beauty beyond. Deep in his soul he hoped to catch a glimpse of the elf who tended it, a grace that Mahal could not – or perhaps would not – grant.

His hope was partially driven by longing, for he missed his dearest friend, even if the accompanying emotion now resembled a dull ache more than a sharp, wrenching pain. And it was partially driven by something else, something he had difficulty admitting to himself: He could no longer remember what Legolas looked like, not truly, not with the exactness his mind desired, nor could he recall the exact tone and quality of his voice.

His lack of sketching a picture of Legolas – and his mortal friends whose destinations were not Mahal’s mansions – upon his arrival in the Halls of Awaiting was one of his greatest regrets.

Yet Gimli wasn’t one to lose himself completely in misgivings about the past, nor drown in sorrow over those his soul longed to see once more even as he knew it could not be so. Instead, he did as any dwarf would, whole-heartedly devoting himself to his crafting, for this was both his wont and his Maker’s.

He moved his gaze from garden blooms to the task that sat upon his worktable, a meticulous one that he hoped to finish this very day. His fingers moved to deftly resume the setting of countless tiny jewels upon a set of beads, a long-planned gift for his Amad.

Over the next hours he became so absorbed in the crafting of his Amad’s gift that he nearly jumped out of his seat when his concentration was suddenly broken by the unmistakable voice of his Maker.

“Gimli, son of Glóin,” Mahal boomed as he towered over the dwarf, their metallic-hued tunics and breeches as finely crafted as the stout, muscular forms that bore them.

Gimli bowed a fluid, formal greeting after moving to stand beside his worktable. Countless years had passed from the time when Gimli had first grown used to the Vala’s sudden appearances, even as his irritation grew at his Maker’s lack of abidance by his need for privacy. The curses, as always, Gimli kept to himself, muttering colorful phrases within the confines of his mind. 

“I am ever at your service, even as I had always been before I entered your hallowed Halls,” he said with due sincerity. Petty annoyances aside, of all the Valar that Gimli had encountered while traveling the expanse of the Undying Lands, Mahal was tallied amongst his favorites, and not simply due to his status as Creator of the Second-Born. Gimli deemed the Vala to be the plainest speaking and perhaps most likable of his brethren, his penchant for disregarding the finer points of privacy aside.

“Aye, of your service I am well aware and appreciative,” Mahal said with a rare smile, keenly appreciating the fiery thoughts of his erstwhile son. “My mandate is thus – there is one whose heart yearns for an elf on these shores, and Mandos has decreed that he shall be allowed to visit one he loves dearly a final time, such that his pining spirit – and the elf’s fëa – can find some semblance of peace until the world is remade.”

Upon hearing Mahal’s dictate – direct and to the point, with no niceties or unnecessary flourish – Gimli’s heart leapt in his chest. Or more correctly, his heart would have done so, had the dwarf yet been housed within a mortal body. His thoughts immediately and unerringly strayed to Legolas, for surely Gimli’s soul _yearned_ for the companionship of his dearest and most beloved friend.

Many a year had passed since he had convinced himself that he _could not_ pine for Legolas, his reasons too many to count. By the time Gimli’s soul had grown weary of its housing within his mortal form, the dwarf who shared incomparable love with an elf was prepared to abide by his decisons. 

Yet Mahal’s words slightly widened a small crack in the acceptance that surrounded his heart, small regrets seeping to the surface, fueling a stream of future- and past-oriented _what if’s_ that he quickly quelled.

Mahal read his flickering desires and hope easily enough, regardless of their brevity, for he understood it far more fully than the one who bore it. Gimli had returned to the stone from which he had sprung untied to his One, yet tied all the same. Even so, the Vala refrained from speaking that which he knew to be truth, for he would not preempt the meandering journey that his child’s heart had undertaken. 

Instead the Vala conveyed further detail regarding the escort he would have Gimli provide. “You are acquainted with them both. Bard I of Dale, known as the Bowman prior to ascending the throne. His Doom has not yet been laid upon him, despite his long tarrying in the Hall of Awaiting. The elf is Thranduil, King of the Silvan elves of Eryn Galen, the Greenwood that became Mirkwood and then Greenwood the Great once more. He now dwells in the forests of Oromë, as you well know.”

Surprise flowed through the dwarf upon hearing Mahal’s words, for this detailing was even more unexpected than the nature of the Vala’s request. As Gimli recovered his wits following Mahal’s disclosure, a wondrous grin etched itself upon his face, for he truly wished he could convey this news to Legolas and view the elf’s astonishment with his own two eyes. 

Yet view such a reaction he very well might! The dwarrow could barely contain his excitement that this journey would bear him hence. His unmitigated joy was short-lived, however, for it soon intermingled with a strange, ever-slight trepidation. Any uncertainty or regret with regard to the choices of his heart had been carefully studied and placed aside, and their reemergence seemed a possibility that his practical nature had little desire to permit.

Mahal took his leave as quickly as he had appeared, with no fanfare or fuss, and Gimli returned to his work, his heart both heavy and light.


	2. Chapter 2

The dwarrow’s subsequent crafting was pensive and unfocused, and he cursed loudly when he applied far too much force on the flawless gemstone that he was carefully setting.

“Laddie! What’s with the racket on this fine day?” Dáin’s voice drifted through the closed outer door of Gimli’s spacious chambers, thunderous enough to find its way through the similarly-closed inner door that led to his workroom. 

“You'll wake the dead with your ruckus,” Dáin continued as Gimli bid his King and long-time friend to enter, his eyes narrowed as he studied the dwarf with fond concern. “What news did Mahal bear?” he asked, easily reading the mixed emotions that lay beneath Gimli’s well-controlled veneer of good-natured calm. 

“You sensed his presence?” The unnecessary question was a mere diversion, for any in the vicinity would have been instantly aware of their Maker’s appearance – and Dáin and his One occupied chambers a mere two doors west of Gimli’s own.

“The better question, laddie, is what he bestowed upon you.” Dáin looked upon him with open curiosity as he walked to Gimli’s small sitting area, taking liberties to pour potent spirits for their partaking as they conversed – _spirits for the spirits_ , he proclaimed each time they sat together thus.

Gimli simply smiled, appreciating the ear of his King within these Halls as much as said King appreciated his own. 

And then Dáin’s mood turned serious, for as much as he enjoyed lightening solemn moods, his ability to read said moods and related thoughts of others was as keen as his fiercely unmatched prowess in battle. “Talk to me of what bittersweet undertaking he has bid you complete,” he prodded, his tone firm yet gentle. 

“Aye, you know my moods too well. Indeed, Mahal has tasked me with a heretofore unattempted project,” Gimli began, and that was no surprise to the King Under the Mountain. Glóin’s son was one of Mahal’s favored craft-designers – given all Gimli knew of trees and flora, he was able to produce many a beloved design for Yavanna, particularly in light of the years-upon-years he had spent in the presence of the Vala during his fondly-termed ‘retirement’ in the Undying Lands. 

Dáin waited patiently for Gimli to continue, for he suspected no simple designing of elaborate jewelry was what had been currently tasked to this dwarf of his realm.

Gimli took a leisurely drink and then lit his pipe from the flint and steel that Dáin offered, inhaling thrice before he spoke once more. “Mahal has bid me to assist a spirit that lingers in the Hall of Awaiting of men and hobbits. Mandos has decreed that he shall be permitted to visit one he loves once more.”

“Well,” Dáin began after he’d found words, for the news was simply stunning – Mandos was not one to let any mannish or hobbit soul leave his Halls unless their travel bore them to their destined end point, namely Eru’s arms. The Vala’s means of prohibiting alternative ports of call was legendary. 

“Not quite what I expected to hear, I’ll give you that,” Dáin continued. “And why are you needed to route this man or hobbit to our Halls? Surely Mahal or Mandos – or even Nienna – could perform such a task themselves – they have done so for each and every one of us. Want to put their best foot forward, and send the best-looking amongst us to greet this newcomer, I take it? When do we need to depart to greet this fine lad?" 

And then the more important question was uttered as he considered possible answers. “Who is it, lad? You’ve no need to keep secrets from me.”

“Nay,” Gimli replied, ever-appreciating his King’s finely crafted personality as much as said King appreciated his own. “This isn’t a pining soul seeking solace from a dwarf within our mansions. His heart yearns for its match in the form of an elf of the Blessed Lands.” 

Dáin put his pipe to the side, unable to tolerate such delightful suspense. New information was pricelessly rare within these mansions, and nothing that even distally related to the dwarf who sat across from him had been uttered in years upon years. Dáin wagered that Gimli would know the elf he would name, given his status as elf-friend, the only dwarf to have walked the paradise that lay beyond their Maker’s mansions. “Well? Out with it, laddie! Who is this distraught soul?”

Gimli’s eyes glittered with the knowledge that his disclosure would be entirely unexpected, perhaps even exceeding Dáin’s surprise when he had learned of Gimli’s treasured friendship with Legolas and his fondness for Galadriel. “Bard I of Dale. He seeks Thranduil.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the King’s voice filled the air.

“Sod off, you’re pulling my beard!” Dáin said as he slapped his leg.

Gimli smiled, shaking his head, the long length of his beard flowing softly with the movement. He certainly understood his sentiment, for had he himself not heard the words directly from Mahal’s mouth, he might have been captured by disbelief as well. 

“To each his own, I suppose,” Dáin continued after pondering Gimli’s disclosure for a few short moments, “but I don't really see it. Cold as ice, that one. The elf, not the human,” he clarified unnecessarily, sitting back in his chair, stroking his long mustache thoughtfully. This was undeniably interesting news, for Dáin considered Bard as one of his own brothers. The King Under the Mountain and Lord of the Iron Hills brought to mind the limited interactions he’d observed between the pair – particularly the cold, terse, distanced communications that he’d chalked up to Thranduil’s personality, but now seemed to have a different cause. 

“He is pretty, I've always said, for an elf,” he added after taking another drink, savoring the earthy, sharp flavors of this particular vintage as he pondered Bard’s affinity for the Elvenking. “Loves gems and jewels, have to respect that. Lived in a cave, another point in his favor – can’t discount one who appreciates good stone. Reliable and swift sword arm, that one. Fierce and unyielding, even if his belly isn’t filled with fire.”

Dáin moved to refill their tumblers, glancing at Gimli out of the corner of his eye as he poured. “Though I daresay he’s not as attractive as his counterpart, the Lady of the Wood,” he said, and Gimli smiled absent-mindedly, his mind occupied by thoughts of Thranduil’s son.

To Dáin, or Glóin and his wife, or the others in Mahal’s mansions that were closest to Gimli – nay, to any of Middle-Earth, dwarf, human, hobbit, and elf alike – it was no well-hidden, undetectable secret that the elf-friend’s heart held fondness for several of the first-born, from his respect for the sons and daughter of Elrond to his incomparable friendship with Legolas. And then there was his appreciation of the strange beauty of elves, including his apparent adoration of Galadriel, the elf oft rumored to hold his heart. But Gimli had never spoken of her as his One, and Dáin had wondered on many an occasion if he _truly_ loved the Lady. Yet the son of Glóin had returned to the stone with his heart’s story forever entombed, knowledge that he would not share – secrets that any respectable dwarf would not pry overmuch to find. 

Well, perhaps not any dwarf.

Dáin’s own desire to assist the human he’d grown to consider family was enough to kindle an idea in his mind, one that he could not ignore – particularly when combined with this opportunity, slight as it might be, to learn something of Gimli’s potential One. 

“When do we leave?” he asked once again - this time in all seriousness – and Gimli could not help but smile in turn.


	3. Chapter 3

Exiting Mahal’s mansions was surprisingly simple. One moment they were inside – and the next, outside, Mahal invoking a single word in the tongue of the Valar to make it so.

“That’s it?” Dáin said with a frown. Mahal had readily granted his request to join Gimli on this quest, sensing Dáin’s desired purpose in doing so and not outright disagreeing with it.

“Aye, if I had known it would be this easy, I should have attempted an escape before,” Gimli commented quietly, and for a moment Dáin was not certain if he was serious.

Yet as he examined his surroundings, Gimli knew instantly his statement was not true, for this was not Valinor as he’d experienced while alive. There was nothing that he recognized, even though he had walked this area with Legolas on more than a few occasions. All was misty and hazy before him, even Dáin at his side. He already missed the solidity of form and environment provided by Mahal’s mansions, even as he suspected that the resemblance of dwarven afterlife to their time as mortal beings was simply a masterful illusion of sorts crafted by his Maker’s cunning mind and skilled hands.

“Well now,” Dáin said, hiding his own unease as he rubbed his palms together, although the action had no effect, his current form comprised of mere wisps and tendrils of seeming-vapor. To say both were disconcerted by their now-ghostly forms and the strangeness of the world of the living was an understatement. “Where’s our delightful companion?”

Mahal seemed to pay them no heed as he beckoned for Námo with his thoughts, and the imposing Lord of the Dead appeared before them soon afterward, a spectral form by his side.

“Aye, there he is!” Dáin cried as he recognized Bard – at least he thought it was Bard, ethereal being that he was.

The reaction of the long-deceased King of Dale was the polar opposite of his dwarven counterpart’s. He began to flee in response to Dáin’s effusive greeting, and Mandos quickly raised a hand to instantly calm him.

And then the Valar took their leave without bidding a single word of parting, leaving the trio to their task.

“Helpful bunch, they are,” the King Under the Mountain muttered sarcastically, keeping his voice soft out of fear of startling Bard further, filled with uncertainty about how best to proceed. 

“Nay, do not worry, on either count,” Gimli said confidently, in an equally low voice. “I traveled the Undying Lands countless times. Oromë’s forest is due east and spreads to the south, and the path is easily traveled. And Bard’s memories will return in due time. Mahal warned me that this might be the case for a human, although he was not entirely certain, as this task has not been attempted before.”

Dáin wondered if Gimli’s confidence was perchance misplaced, for if Mahal was not certain of the intactness of Bard’s memories upon leaving the Halls of Awaiting, how could their Maker know that said memories would return? Yet he decided to shelve his questions, for Gimli was amongst Mahal’s most faithful, and he knew of no time that his faith had been misplaced.

Gimli straightened – standing as tall as a specter could – and then bowed slowly, speaking soft words of welcome. “King Bard of Dale, we are at your service, honored to assist you in this task. And we are gladdened to see you once more, for it has been long since our last parting.”

Bard simply floated in front of them, any memories stored within his soul more vaporous than his ghostly form. He had no recollection of this pair, nor even of himself. Had it not been for Mandos’ calming touch and the not-small task of finding Qalvanda, he would have instinctively fled back to the Halls, for there was more comfort to be found in eternal distress than as a houseless spirit roaming Valinor. 

“You don't recognize us, do you laddie?” Dáin murmured.

Bard made no response, struggling as he was to arrive at some modicum of understanding that which was now before him. Yet at the same time he felt a greater degree of peace than he had for some time, even if he did not entirely recognize it as such, for he was no longer alone amidst the souls of countless unknown others. His son and daughters, their children, and their children’s children had long-ago departed beyond the Circles of the World, even as he himself had tarried.

“This is Dáin,” Gimli said in way of explanation, “King Under the Mountain and Lord of the Iron Hills. You first met upon the field of the Battle of Five Armies, and he soon became your ally, and the ally of your son and daughters, and their children as well.” 

“Aye, though I looked more becoming as a mortal,” Dáin said. “Perhaps that wee tidbit is why you recognize me not,” he added.

A flicker of recognition glimmered in Bard’s eyes, departing as soon as it had arrived. He had no conscious recollection of the events that had been spoken by way of introduction, nor did he know that Dáin had sacrificed his life in the defense of his grandson Brand’s body during the War of the Ring. Yet his soul knew of it, and that kept him by the side of this pair more firmly than Mandos’ intervention.

“Not as if he has a mouth - though neither do we, I suppose - but perhaps he cannot speak?" Dáin whispered to Gimli. "Must be the human in the poor bloke - all human, at that. Did Mahal present that as a possibility?”

“No,” Gimli whispered back, “but he didn’t expound on much of anything, not truly, beyond the potential of Bard lacking his memories. It may be the case he won’t speak until he recalls his life?” 

They floated awkwardly, and soon enough Dáin spoke once more. “Well, we’re not getting any younger just loitering around. Come, lads, let’s get a move on. Gimli, lead the way,” and he gestured with his insubstantial arm for his kinsman to do just that.

Yet Gimli recognized nothing in the haze around him. As endless as the insolidity that surrounded them was, he certainly could not locate the winding road that would take them to Oromë’s wood. They wandered aimlessly, the dwarves walking as best as spirits could, hoping that with time Gimli would come to recognize the Undying Lands as he recalled them in his memories. Even as Gimli and Dáin moved slowly and nearly in circles, they figuratively breathed sighs of relief when Bard floated behind them, for each feared that in his skittishness – or in his lack of understanding of what had led to his presence here – he might simply drift away, forever lost. 

All three were simultaneously surprised and relieved when Mandos appeared before them once more, as though responding to the dwarves’ musings, though it was not quite so. “Hold! You forget that you no longer have physical form, not as you did while alive, and not that which Aulë created for you within his mansions. Here you are as if a wisp of energy, and you will most easily sense that which is similar in nature to you. You must concentrate – _fully_ – on the woods to which you travel, Gimli son of Glóin, and the memories stored within your soul will pull you thence. The others will follow you.” 

The Vala waved his hand before them, and as a strange electric sensation passed through them the haze dissipated enough that the world of the living became vaguely visible. Almost as an afterthought, he sent a flicker of intense light in Bard’s direction, and then disappeared from view once more.

“Who are you?” Bard asked some moments later, Mandos’ intervention speeding his ability to communicate in the manner known only to phantasms.

“Aye, bless the forge,” Dáin said happily, counting this as one of the times he had been most pleased to hear words bid forth from a being’s mouth. “Before you stands the Lonely Mountain’s hero of the Ring-War, yet his more treasured title on these shores is that of elf-friend. He sailed from Middle-Earth with Legolas Thranduilion, and as such is the first and only dwarf to be counted amongst those who have set foot upon the white sands of Valinor.”

Another flicker of recognition kindled in Bard’s eyes, yet he could not latch upon the fleeting memory before it disappeared. “Tell me what you know of why I am here, and what it is that I seek. I feel a distant pull upon me, yet I know not what it is.”

“Aye, yet I know little of your tale myself,” Gimli said, “simply that you lingered in Mandos for centuries upon centuries after your death, your soul pining for this Love of yours. It is to his side that we will escort you.”

Anxiety then permeated Bard’s soul, and Gimli easily recognized it as such. “Worry not,” the dwarrow said soothingly, “his heart is a fine choice for yours to have made. While I know little of the tale of your love for Thranduil, I can tell you of him in hope of stirring your own recollections.”

“Come now, lads,” Dáin interrupted. “A good tale never tires in the telling, but we don't need the Valar shooing us off. Or worse, changing their minds and shooing us back in.”

“Aye, true enough,” Gimli said, forcing further words aside as he turned his full focus to Mandos’ command regarding their means of travel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qalvanda = Road of Death, built by Mandos and Nienna after the hiding of Valinor


	4. Chapter 4

Gimli concentrated his thoughts on Oromë’s forest, bringing forth key treasured memories from his plentiful trove of such gems. He thought of the feasting glade and trees that Legolas enjoyed dancing amidst, and of the many celebrations he’d attended at the behest of the Elvenking. There was the archery range where he had watched Legolas and Tauriel practice their skills on many a sunny afternoon, occasionally joined by Oromë himself. The neighboring range had been crafted for the dwarf to practice the throwing of his axe, and Gimli had many a fond memory of attempting to teach Legolas of the wielding of his favored weapon. There were the countless nights spent in the talan he’d shared platonically with the elf, even as he’d experienced unbidden, fanciful dreams of _more_ on occasion, something he had not thought upon in such a long span of time…

The pull on his spirit was unexpectedly sudden and chillingly intense, and he felt as though he might rip in two. The near-ice that filled his soul was unbearable. Just as he was readying to invoke Mahal’s name in sheer terror he found himself in the comforting familiarity of Oromë’s woods, recognizing them instantly regardless of the haziness of his vision. 

It had been long centuries since he had last walked this forest, this wood that he himself had deigned to call home. Yet it seemed as though it had been but yesterday that he stood in this very glade, the one in which he and Legolas had built the talan they shared, a talan that still stood in the lowest branches of the elf’s well-tended, enormous tree. Gimli had grumbled good-naturedly when he and Legolas had moved into their home, known throughout the Undying Lands as the lowest-lying talan ever built, and certainly the only one to be made of stone or boast a wide, winding ramp for the use of an aged dwarf – the only one with regard to the latter, that is, until Galadriel added a ramp to her own within Lórien’s gardens, for she welcomed Gimli’s visits as often as he could travel to see her.

Nothing seemed to have changed – yet all was so very different.

His companions did not comment on the unique architecture of the structure before them, for they were far more concerned with being as disheveled as spirits could possibly be. “Bloody hell! That was not a pleasant trip!” Dáin grumbled.

“Aye, I second that,” Gimli agreed. “My mind is addled and the rest of me feels far worse, as though we had been frozen and broken apart into miniscule pieces and then patched together again.”

“Consider mine the third vote in agreement.” Bard looked around the woods, his discomfort quickly overcome by an eager anticipation that he could not fully explain. “Tell me, what is this place?”

“It is the everlasting home of the elves of what you called Mirkwood, those who followed their King – your beloved – to the Undying Lands in which we now stand,” Gimli explained.

“And is that him?” Bard asked, gesturing toward the stone talan, in his state of absent memories not recognizing its occupant.

Gimli turned to see the elf standing within the structure, his profile lit by the warm glow of candles within and moonlight without. _Legolas_ , he murmured, forgetting his spectral companions for the time being, his spirit thrumming as he gazed upon one he never thought he would see again. Even with the mandate of Mahal and Mandos, he had not truly thought he would arrive here, in this place that had been home for so many years, to stand before the one whom he loved more than any other.

The one he knew, then and there, that he did not want to be separate from ever again, even as he realized the impossibility of his wish, for it could never be.

“Nay, this is not your beloved,” Gimli finally said, not turning from where he still gazed upon his friend, the elf’s ever-young visage imperceptibly etched with the pain of permanent separation from loved ones, his stern expression the most lovely visage Gimli had ever seen, even if none knew of this opinion. “That is Legolas, your beloved’s son.”

“Ah, the one you sailed with, as Dáin said,” Bard said softly. 

Yet Gimli did not hear his words, for his soul glowed with uncontained excitement as Legolas’ gaze turned towards him, and the warm emotions emanating from the core of his being increased tenfold. This reunion, he realized, was more than he could have ever wished for after his own passing from life. His thoughts scattered in all directions – there was so much he wanted to tell Legolas, and he was entirely uncertain where to start.

He soon decided that a fond welcome was as good a place as any.

“Legolas!” Gimli called eagerly as he moved towards the Prince.

“It cannot be,” Legolas said with a fond, near-awestruck expression on his face, his eyes seeming to pierce Gimli’s soul.


	5. Chapter 5

The dwarf forgot whatever it was he had wanted to say, finding himself entirely at a loss for words. He was momentarily overcome by Legolas’ welcoming smile as he realized how deeply he had missed their shared evenings, spent in a mixture of conversation and the simple, often silent appreciation of one another’s presence.

How he had longed for the companionship of this elf, this creature whose friendship had meant more to him than any other. Any trepidation he had held about this journey vanished, for there could be no regret in seeing this one who was very well be One to him, even if he squelched such musings before they drifted to the surface.

“Aye, it most certainly is, and we chummed along with the lad,” Dáin said as Gimli struggled to generate a response, the former uncertain of his reception from the Prince for whom he’d developed a strong fondness _after_ passing from the world, and certainly not during life. 

“You return from your travels so soon?” Legolas said as he walked the short distance from the talan proper to the outer branches of his tree, and Gimli found himself confused at the elf’s response to his King’s comment.

Then he turned, following Legolas’ gaze as it traveled _through_ him, _beyond_ him. Gimli saw, to his immense disappointment, that it was not to him that Legolas spoke – but to another, someone he could not quite see in the clearing beyond Legolas’ tree. 

Legolas, it seemed, had not been aware of his presence.

“Not to worry, Laddie,” Dáin said firmly. “The Valar wouldn’t make this so bloody easy that he’d see you straight away. We'll need to spend a wee smidge of time learning how to gain the attention of the living.”

“And what would you propose?” Bard asked.

Dáin began to speak, and then stopped – and started again – and stopped once more.

“I am not certain I have ever witnessed you at a loss for words,” Gimli said, half-paying attention to his King as he regarded the departing form of Legolas, the elf moving to join whomever awaited him in the glade.

“Well, let’s follow him, at least,” Dáin replied after some moments, for he had been struck by the strength of Gimli’s reaction to the Elvenking’s son – certainly it had been _different_ and _more_ than that which he himself would experience for a friend, regardless of how dear, his own recent example of reuniting with Bard a case in point.

Nay, this seemed more akin to One pined for, not one simply missed.

Could it be the Prince of once-Mirkwood that Gimli loved, and not the Lady of the Wood? 

He shelved those thoughts for later as they descended to the ground below, the world of the living seeming to grow even more gray, as though all was encased in dense fog – yet they were too slow, for Legolas could not be seen.

Bard’s voice eventually cut through the muttered curses that occasionally streamed from the dwarves, none of them knowing how much time passed as they wandered in search of Legolas, aside from it being _long_. “Do you recall any of his favored paths?” he asked, attempting to be helpful.

“Aye, I do, and perhaps that is why we wander in circles – I recall far too many of them.” Gimli attempted to take stock of their location and focus his thoughts, a task that was surprisingly difficult – much more so than predicted by the relative ease which had marked their initial travel here. 

“Slow it down, then, Laddie,” Dáin said in his soothing, firm tone. “You’ll find him soon enough. Perhaps recount for us some favored memories of this place, for if we have knowledge of those, we may be able to assist in the choosing – or, more likely, you’ll sort it out aloud.” He shuddered inwardly as he thought upon the world before him, for the grayness of his vision led him to wonder if Oromë’s forest was simply Mirkwood redux – yet who could account for the tastes of elves, truly?

And so Gimli found himself telling brief tales of his time with Legolas within this wood – and Dáin, for one, could not help but notice once more the incomparable warmth that emanated from Gimli’s soul when he spoke of the Prince, this reunion of sorts sparking a response the King Under the Mountain had never witnessed in this dwarrow before, either during life or in the Halls. 

While Bard thought nothing more of it beyond the self-described renowned friendship the pair had shared, Dáin’s mind _did_ churn with thoughts of _more_ , for the puzzle of Gimli’s heart seemed not nearly so difficult to solve in the face of his gazing upon this elf whom he’d thought to never see again.

And in that moment, Dáin felt a surge of pity for Gimli, an emotion he had never felt towards him before, and one he would surely not express, knowing this dwarf wanted no such thing. For if his musings were correct, Gimli had returned to the stone without declaring his love for his One – much as any dwarrow would do when love was unrequited. 

If secrecy was what allowed the dwarrow to maintain his pride – so be it.

Assuming, of course, that his postulating was correct– and with regard to that, Dáin was not yet willing to wager any and all that he had.

Yet there was only one way to truly determine the truth of the matter – and it was not through wistful reminiscing, for throughout said tales Gimli – and even Dáin and Bard – had sharpened his focus. “Ready, then?” Dáin asked as Gimli’s most recent tale drew to a close, knowing much time had passed, “to try again? Beside that, as I think upon it, the elf may have returned by now, so we may as well renew our search there.”

“Aye,” Gimli replied, his resolve firm and his being filled with anticipation. “Let us go and see.”


	6. Chapter 6

The trio found Legolas high in the branches of his home tree, gazing upon beloved stars as he sang verses that neither Dáin nor Bard recognized, yet Gimli knew just as fully as any of the songs of Durin’s folk.

The elf sat with his knees pulled into his chest, his chin resting upon his crossed arms, and Gimli warmed once more at the familiar sight.

“Legolas,” he said softly, moving directly in front of the elf, doing all he could think of to gain his attention.

Legolas did not move.

“He once more does not realize I am here,” Gimli eventually said to Bard and Dáin after exhausting his repertoire of ideas to attract the Prince’s awareness. His disappointment burrowed inward, and he tried to force himself to concentrate on the task at hand. Yet doubt inevitably percolated to the surface: _Surely they shared some sort of bond between them,_ even if they had never shared any type of traditional, romantic binding. Surely Legolas’ fëa would recognize his dear friend’s spirit? 

What did it mean that he did not?

For the first time, he questioned the strength of Legolas’ feelings towards him, wondering if the meaning and strength of their friendship had dissipated over the time they had been apart.

Dáin’s firm voice broke through his worry. “You’re approaching him too gently, Laddie. It’s as though you stand timidly in the back corner of a feast hall, waiting for his attention to be drawn to you above the din and noise – you are no mouse! Speak to him from the strength of the goodwill that you bear him, at least!” His King stood with arms crossed over his chest – so much as a spirit could – and his voice held an impatient edge.

“I do not want to overwhelm him,” Gimli muttered softly, his inexplicable slivers of doubt about the strength of their friendship mingling with inklings of trepidation about the _hows_ of interacting with Legolas. His long-time friend had much difficulty accepting the deaths of their other mortal companions. Gimli grew reluctant, suddenly uncertain how to ensure this reunion would not inadvertently cause Legolas more pain. 

“Make up your mind, Laddie! If he doesn’t know you’re here, how can he be overwhelmed by your presence? Beside that, _look_ who we’re talking of here!” Dáin said nothing more, for this was _Legolas Thranduilion_ , an elf that, to Dáin’s recollection, had seemed to be overcome by _nothing_ he could think of – he was more crazed, in many ways, than any dwarf he had ever known! 

Gimli sensed his King’s difficulty in understanding his reticence, yet he did not attempt to explain the struggles with mortality that had gnawed at Legolas’ mind, for the elf would not want him to share such things with another.

“I agree, Gimli. Gentle prodding does not seem to be what this situation calls for,” Bard said firmly.

“Aye, I will try,” Gimli said finally. Regardless of any internal struggle within himself, he knew Legolas would never let him hear the end of it if he did _not_ try.

As soon as Gimli moved to sit upon the branch that held Legolas, the elf’s eyes narrowed as he searched the forest beyond, the fingers of his right hand moving to grasp the locket he wore round his neck.

Dáin tried to grip Gimli’s shoulder to gain his attention, yet couldn’t, a natural consequence of his spectral form, so he spoke instead. “How did I not notice this? You gave him your Da’s locket, laddie? I have said it before, and I would say it again – we should call the elf dwarf-friend.”

“Aye, we should, for he certainly is deserving of such a title,” Gimli said. 

“Try to speak to him once more,” Bard said encouragingly, “perhaps he will hear this time.” For his part, the King of Dale was in no particular hurry to find Thranduil. While his memories of the Elvenking had not yet returned, his spirit felt an unceasing, gentle pull towards Thranduil’s – yet more importantly he had quickly grown to know that the Elvenking’s son meant much to his guide. 

“Hmph. I must say this is growing to feel a bit silly.” He looked around, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. And then he looked at Legolas once more, wishing that he might pull him close for one last embrace. “Ni gellweg an gin cened.”

“Try something more heartfelt,” Bard said, sensing this might make a difference, for while he knew not what Gimli had said, it seemed somewhat cursory. “Talk of how you valued your friendship.”

Yet they were interrupted by the appearance of another at the base of the tree, an instantly recognizable voice lilting through its massive branches as she climbed deftly upward. “Legolas? You’ve missed…” and then her words drifted off as the ellon turned toward his red-tressed friend, his façade of quiet contemplation crumbling, his hand clutching the locket that lay against his chest. “Oh, Legolas,” she said softly, her face full of sympathy, and she pulled him into her arms.

“Aye,” Gimli murmured sadly, filled with guilty relief as he saw that his worry about their friendship appeared to be unfounded, the visuals of the scene overcoming him far more than the words that were being said. “I miss you as well, my dearest friend.”

Yet just as the trio of spirits could not be seen by the elves, Legolas could not hear Gimli’s words, and Tauriel led him into his talan. “Come,” she said. “You shall tell me tales of dear Gimli until the sun rises.”

Gimli stared after them, his soul filled with sorrow, knowing the grief that welled through him in sympathy for Legolas’ pain exceeded his own bereavement, and guilt grew alongside it – _had he been selfish in desiring to look upon his friend once more?_ “My presence here has simply awakened old wounds, namely his grief over the loss of our friendship.”

“Or perhaps said wounds never healed, and Aulë had a dual purpose in sending you to escort me,” Bard said thoughtfully.

“Aye,” Gimli replied carefully, “though I hope for the elf’s sake that is not the case.” He turned to his companions, torn between the desire to mend whatever wound he may have opened and his determination to see the mission for which they had been sent through to its conclusion. 

His choice was facilitated by the longing in Bard’s soul, a yearning that had slowly grown since their arrival. “I will return to my friend, but first let us find Thranduil, and determine what path lays before us in resolving the pain within your heart.”

He sent a prayer to Mahal as they departed, hoping his choice was the correct one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ni gellweg an gin cened_ (Sindarin) = I am joyful for seeing you.


	7. Chapter 7

“We spin in circles here,” Gimli muttered in frustration at himself. “And this is not the purpose for which we traveled here, not truly.”

Gimli had returned time and again to Legolas’ talan, somehow unable to follow the path he had tread on many an occasion while alive to the Elvenking’s Halls. Hence the trio found themselves outside of Legolas’ home tree once more, the product of Gimli’s most recent concerted – and unsuccessful – effort to lead his companions to Thranduil.

“Perhaps I should make an attempt,” Bard suggested. “After all, the love you bear for your friend is strong. That in itself may make your attempts a near-impossibility – perhaps your ties to his home are too strong to overcome.”

“Aye, he has a point,” Dáin said thoughtfully.

“Though your memories have not returned – and memories are what I have been using for our travel thus far.” Gimli sighed, and the others grudgingly agreed, returning to their impasse.

“Unless…” Dáin eventually offered, thoughtfully gazing at Bard, “I know you recall nothing of him, but perhaps if you focused on the love you bear for him, a love your soul clearly holds?” And his words were true, for both he and Gimli had seen this, a link to the Elvenking that had not seemed to overly dim during their long time apart.

The dwarrows saw Bard's soul glow intensely when he did as Dáin bid. For some moments, they themselves were bathed in the light of what could only be a soul-bond linking the human and elf. Gimli fought his envy, for he knew it was unproductive, even as he felt wistfulness grow within him as he awaited the reunion of this pair that had clearly bonded in the manner of elves.

Yet nothing more occurred - _could not_ , it seemed, for a bond of love fraught with anger and sorrow - even denial of its existence - would not be easily traversed.

****

It seemed to the specters that weeks upon weeks had passed since they had last departed from Legolas' talan, when both Gimli and Bard's attempts to locate the Elvenking were totaled together. Days passed one by one - at least they thought it was so, for in the haze that constantly surrounded them it was difficult to be certain.

It was on one such day that Gimli yet-again absentmindedly studied the trees of the forest in which they found themselves, trying to quell his mounting frustration. He had no desire to lead this quest to a point of failure. While he was of a patient, faithful sort, his soul's lack of housing in these seemingly strange lands was beginning to take its toll - on all of them.

"Durin's balls, I wish I could summon Gandalf to assist us - he could guide us where we must travel, for _guide_ is what he was," Gimli said wistfully.

Dáin looked at him with a raised brow, insubstantial as it was. He did not disagree with Gimli's words about Tharkûn, for even with the Wizard's penchance for disappearing at inopportune times, tales within the Halls told of him _appearing_ even more often - and he clearly held all of Eru's children in esteem.

"Yet _you_ were assigned to be my guide - do you truly believe we need another?" Bard asked with a frown.

Gimli turned to the Bowman slowly, a grin growing on his near-nondescript face as Bard's words triggered a realization. "Nay - if I could hug you I would!" And he tried regardless, wisps of vapor flying into the air and then resettling. " _Together_ we must locate Thranduil - we must jointly focus on both your pull towards him while I guide us with my memories!"

Understanding dawned on the other two then, for as strange as this would have sounded to them prior to this quest - even as strange as it sounded now - they knew it was so.

And so Bard focused on his love for Thranduil, drawing both dwarrows within it once more, while Gimli guided the Bowman with his own memories, and though neither could explain in any detail _how_ it was done, it _was_. After a thankfully low number of misstarts they suddenly found themselves where Gimli's memories of the Elvenking were most fond - Thranduil's favored feasting glade within his kingdom's locale in Oromë's forest.

“This is more like it!” Dáin said joyously as he looked upon the glade in which they now stood. “A feast. Looks fit for an army, as it were.” There were tables upon tables overflowing with food, beverages, and more, appealing regardless of the gray mist that surrounded them.

They each tried in vain to partake of what was offered, but it was of no use, hands simply gliding through all that they attempted to touch. While it was certainly not their first such experience with their incorporeal form, it was clearly one of the more disappointing thus far.

“Bah,” Dáin said with a sigh, “No wonder your Da said these elves were such poor hosts. Make themselves completely inaccessible to us mortal folk, as it were.”

“Aye, a feast fit for elves only. Well, I cannot say that I have much of an appetite in our current form,” Gimli replied. “Yet I must say that their hospitality was most gracious over the years I spent at Legolas’ side, both on this side of the Sea and on the other.”

For his part, Bard paid them no attention, his spirit pulled in near-unbearable yearning towards the fëa of the cherished one he intuitively sensed was near. “Look,” Bard interrupted as Dáin was nodding his agreement with Gimli’s words, the former bowman’s soul recognizing instantly what his rote memories did not.

Into the glade strode the Elvenking, complete in his royal splendor, and to Bard his beauty shone more brightly than anything he had ever looked upon, even through the mist that surrounded his vision.

Bard instinctively began to approach Thranduil, but stopped when Legolas appeared in the feasting glade on the heels of his father, walking with an elleth of unsurpassed beauty on his arm.

The tendrils of jealousy that wove through Bard's dwarven guide were surprisingly strong – and entirely irrational, to Gimli’s mind. _Do I not want him to be happy? Surely I wish nothing more than for him to experience such joys over the course of his eternal life?_

“Well now,” Dáin asked Gimli, interrupting his scattered thoughts, “who might that bonnie lass be?”

The trio watched as Legolas and the elleth bowed with due formality to his father, Thranduil then taking the elleth’s arm.

She gave him a chaste peck on his cheek, and they moved to the head of the glade where stood his elaborately carved woodland throne, the elleth settling in the matching seat beside him.

“Ah, then,” Gimli said, his tone cautious as he pondered how Bard might react to what he was about to say, once more guilty in his own relief that the elleth before him was not Legolas’ companion. “I recognize her now. Thranduil’s Queen has been reimbodied.”

“He was wed to another?” Bard asked, somewhat puzzled at first, but that quickly faded, replaced with an emotion that almost resembled embarrassment. “But of course, perhaps it would be so, for he is a King and has an heir.”

“Aye, but his wife died long before your grandparents’ own grandparents were born. Tell me of your reaction, for I’d wager this is not what you were expecting?” Dáin looked pointedly at the human who had been counted as one of his confidants and closest allies when they had lived.

Bard was silent as he studied the royal couple, and then spoke somewhat more loudly than usually was the case to hear one another over the music playing in the background of this feast, yet still they could not be heard whatsoever by the elves in their midst. “I am not yet certain. Yet if he is indeed my beloved – and in seeing him, I yearn for him, so it must be so – if he is content, I shall be as well. I would not see him yearn for me when happiness is upon his doorstep.”

“Aye,” Gimli said softly, “well said.”

“Well then, I suppose our task is to determine if that is the case – to see if he is well and whole.” Dáin offered, imagining their task was not so simple as that, yet knowing no light would be shed upon it until Bard’s own understanding grew.

“It may not be so simple,” Gimli muttered Dáin’s thoughts out loud, lost in thought, pondering the questions that had floated in his mind since their arrival, and not for the first time. Why had it been that the Oathbreakers of Dunharrow were visible as grey shades to the Three Walkers, and Legolas in particular, yet the elf seemed to be entirely unaware of his presence?

“Yet we shall try,” Bard said firmly as he gazed upon Thranduil once more, his soul knowing that the happiness of this elf was his only concern.

They watched the feasting and dancing before them, studying the Elvenking and his Queen when they took their turn on the glade’s moss-covered floor, yet an answer regarding the holding of Thranduil’s heart was not easily forthcoming. He was cold as ever, expressionless in his regal grace, and his Queen was much the same.

Gimli watched Legolas from afar, the elf rubbing his temple as the feasting progressed, his expression disconcerted and pained.

Thranduil joined his son eventually, whispering in his ear, and the pair soon thereafter departed the glade.

“Well then,” Dáin said firmly, “shall we follow? Of course! Come, lads.”

Adar and ion followed a meandering path through the forest, Thranduil’s arm held loosely over Legolas’ shoulders, their voices mere whispers as they spoke to one another.

“It feels as though we intrude on a private moment,” Gimli whispered. “Come, let us depart for a time, and then resume our vigil.”

Thranduil stopped at that moment, turning and seeming to meet Bard’s eyes while he brushed his hair back over his shoulder, his many rings gleaming in the dappled light of the forest.

Bard was perfectly still, lovestruck affection and longing welling upon him in full force. And then realized he had recalled something of the Elvenking, and before him came flashes of blond hair, a wide, glittering smile, eyes that smoldered with an intensity that took his breath away….

“Laddie!” Dáin interrupted, as Thranduil turned away. “Come.”

Bard shook himself back to the present as the Elvenking guided Legolas further along the forest’s path. And as Bard watched Thranduil leave, an overwhelming sensation of remorse swept through him, even as he could not place the chain of events that had caused it.

Gimli, on the other hand, felt a surge of envy flow through his soul – wishing that it was _his_ arm wrapped around Legolas, that it was _he_ who had been sent on a quest to reunite with his One.

He realized then that if he was in Bard’s position of requited love and resultant pining, he would never willingly leave Legolas’ side, regardless of what might have gone astray.

And then he quelled his thoughts, well-aware that any founding for his wishes and desires was as vaporous as his own current form.

Dáin, focused on Glóin’s son as he was, grew even more convinced of the truth of Gimli’s heart.


	8. Chapter 8

“Through here,” Bard said, gesturing for his companions to follow. “I sense that he is down this hall.”

They had followed the Elvenking to his Halls when the feast had ended, yet had lost track of him in the twists and turns of his delved caverns. The haze that continuously surrounded them made it more challenging to track his quick strides, a task that would have been difficult enough in life. Yet ultimately it seemed to matter not, for Bard’s spirit pulled more freely toward Thranduil now, much as Gimli’s did with Legolas. 

And so they reached the chambers that belonged to the Elvenking, Bard certain that Thranduil was within - yet the finely detailed outer doors were closed.

Dáin cleared his throat. “I think there is only one choice before us, lads,” he said, strangely hesitant.

“And?” Gimli asked when his King had not concluded his words.

“Through the door. Surely if our hands passed through the food and tables at the feasting glade, our bodies will pass through this door.” There had been other such encounters with solid objects, yet they had not attempted to pass _through_ something yet, having little need to do so in the forest.

“Yet is that a violation of his privacy?” Gimli wondered.

And so they stood in the Elvenking’s Halls, uncertain what to do, gazing at what they could see of the walls of stone and doors of wood that lay before them, unable as they were to truly see all aspects of the world of the living in which they walked. 

“It’s interesting architecturally,” Dáin commented, driven by an interweaving of polite decorum and honest admiration, for while his vision was still not as clear or bright as that of the living, he had enough of a glimpse to envision the detailed structuring of these caves. While not as beautifully intricate and solid as what a dwarven clan might construct, there was enough to be found here to earn his approval - at least in a distant sense, for he could not envision himself settling within a place so _strange_. 

“Yes, he was a wood-elf who always preferred cave-living to that of trees, for various reasons,” Bard said with fondness - and then looked most startled when he realized he had remembered something more of the Elvenking. 

It was then that he came to a decision, hoping Thranduil would welcome him thus, and moved to step through the door to his chambers. “After all,” he said before he did so, “surely what lays beyond is not a purely private area, such as his bedchamber, but some sort of sitting room.”

It was indeed so, for they passed into Thranduil’s chambers proper just in time to view the Elvenking entering the large sitting area from a room beyond. His long robes flowed around him as he carried a stack of books, moving to set them upon an elaborately-carved wooden bookcase that stood not far from them.

His elegant fingers trailed along the spines of several books, as though he was looking for a specific title yet could not immediately locate it.

“This may be as good a time as any to attempt to speak with him,” Dáin said pointedly. Bard looked at the dwarrow spirit in anxious trepidation, partially because he had no idea what to say, partially because he had no idea how to say it, somewhat disheartened by the attempts Gimli had made with Legolas.

“Would you rather we leave?” Gimli asked. Bard thought upon that for a moment, and then nodded.

“Perhaps that would be for the best,” he murmured as he turned his attention back toward the Elvenking.

“We'll wait outside, then,” Gimli said, and he and Dáin departed quietly, each sending one last glance in Bard’s direction.

“So tell me, laddie, of the truth, now that we have a wee bit of time to chat,” Dáin asked Gimli once they were alone in the wide, ornate hallway that led to the Elvenking’s chambers.

“Truth? You speak of Thranduil and Bard?” he asked, puzzled, for he knew not what his King wanted to learn – or even if he would have an answer.

Dáin rolled his eyes as well as a phantasm could – and shook his head, his sympathy for the dwarrow’s situation coming to the fore. “In the name of our Maker, enough of the beating ‘round the stones. Nay, perhaps it will ease your heart if we speak of your feelings – your love – for the elf.”

Gimli became still as a boulder, and his King soon decided he was no longer willing to let this seeming truth remain closely held within Gimli’s soul. “It has been unspoken between us long enough,” the King Under the Mountain added firmly.

“Hmph! You speak as though you and I are a bonded pair,” Gimli muttered, “and that this elf comes between us.”

Dáin simply looked at him in irritated sympathy, and Gimli sighed, knowing his King would not be denied – yet not wanting to share anything more than he needed to, for the secrets of a dwarf’s heart were just that. “I care for Legolas dearly – that has never been remotely unspoken.”

“There is love, Gimli, and then there is _love_. During our time in the Halls I had ventured that it may well be the Lady Galadriel who held your heart, for tales suggest it is so – but you look upon Legolas much as I did when I was pining for my own dear One, before she agreed to my courting.” And when Gimli began to mutter his denial, Dáin stopped him, frustrated that this generally-forthright dwarrow was being elusive in his too-obvious reactions and words. “Bloody hell, Gimli, you’ve no need to lie to me – you’ve held this within long enough!”

“There is no lying to be had here,” Gimli replied fiercely. “Nor is there any point to discussing this.”

“You cannot hide behind your crafting here, not as you have during those long centuries in our halls – do you not see that Mahal has granted you a second chance?!”

Gimli near-snorted. “A second chance? For what purpose – to haunt an elf? There is no need to do so when I am certain my feelings are not returned!” 

Gimli stopped as he realized what he had said, startled at what had come forth, but then added, “When has one of our folk chased after another who does not return his or her affections? Especially when the one who loves the other is _dead?!_ ” 

Dáin was enveloped in sympathy for this dwarrow’s plight, wanting to understand more fully what led Gimli to be so clearly convinced that his One did not feel similarly – but his reply at that moment was, of necessity, of a different sort. “We'll continue this later,” Dáin whispered, for at that moment Bard had reappeared.

“Well?” Gimli asked, curious to see if the King of Dale had been successful in raising Thranduil’s awareness of his presence – and anxious to deflect attention away from the subject of his own heart.

Bard shook his head in response, nearly overcome by his soul’s yearning for the elf from whose chambers he had just departed – and his strengthened awareness that _something_ had gone wrong between them. “Yet I do not know how to rectify it – for just like Legolas, he does not seem to be aware that I am here.”

Dáin sighed in frustration. “Could the Valar not have given us the teeniest bloody hint? Come lads, let’s try again and muddle our way through. I’ve a feeling it’s going to take more than a few moons to figure this one out.”


	9. Chapter 9

Legolas walked the mossy path amidst the mellyrn trees, the scents and sounds of the forest filling his senses underneath the golden canopy above him. At his side walked the dwarf who had become such a fixture of his landscape that it seemed near-impossible to place why they had been disagreeable with one another in the first place.

It was a treasured memory of Lothlórien that he returned to time and again when he entered light reverie, and of late, his purpose in its recollection was the calming of his mind moreso than the rejuvenation of his body. 

Somehow, reminding himself of Beginnings did more than Middles or Endings in the buffering of his hope of reunion with his mortal friends – and most of all Gimli – when the world was remade.

As he and the dwarf reached the top of the mallorn, they settled on one of the large branches of the tree – and Gimli reached for Legolas’ hand, overcome by sudden nervousness at being so high above the ground.

“Look,” Gimli said as their hands touched, Legolas’ eyes following his to track a blaze of light in the sky.

And then it seemed the beaming glow moved rapidly into his talan, exiting his world of recollection and fully entering the here-and-now. For a moment he would have sworn to Eru that it was Gimli, standing before him as he bathed Legolas’ hröa in the wondrous warm light that was his soul, a light that he would firmly argue shone far more brightly than his own.

Disappointment filled him when he realized his longing for his long-deceased companion had cloaked the nature of the visitor who was truly there – a large white bird that frequented his tree – and he shook his head as though to rid himself of his thoughts, for in recent history his reverie was filled with similar examples of strangeness that had never filled it before.

“Legolas?” a voice drifted toward him, moving closer as its owner – easily recognizable as Tauriel – moved the short distance from the ground to his home. “Is all well with you? I have not seen you for so many turns of the sun.”

As she stood at the entrance to his stone talan, she wished she had sought him out sooner.

The Prince sat on the floor in the center of his sitting area, Gimli’s belongings stacked in neat piles around him, preserved as they could only be in the Undying Lands. Or so Tauriel hoped, for Legolas drew solace in these concrete reminders of the dwarf, and she shuddered to think of what might become of him should Gimli's clothes or other material possessions begin to decay with age.

It was not the rucksack that sat upon his lap that drew her concern, nor the white-haired braid he held in his hand, clipped by Gimli himself when he had known he had little time left.

It was Legolas’ expression that fostered her unease, for he was contemplative, distant.

She knew the answer to her question without any other signal from him.

“Tell me what troubles you,” she said quietly, and when he did not respond, she grew slightly affronted. “Surely we have exchanged our share of tales both fair and foul over these long years.”

“I do not mean to offend you,” he said softly. “It is simply…” he paused, uncertain what to say.

And she waited, patiently.

“You would not judge me?”

“Of course not,” and she frowned, puzzled by his strange tone and even more foreign worry etched upon his face, an expression she had not seen in countless years.

“I have been having strange – dreams,” he said simply as he stared beyond her, unable to meet her gaze.

“Dreams? Of what?” she asked gently as she laid her hand upon his shoulder.

“Of Gimli. And I correct what I said – they are not dreams, so much as wanderings in reverie that are – strangely modified.”

“Legolas, you make little sense,” she said with a slight grin. “Perhaps you might be less cryptic?”

And so he told her of his more recent times within the waking dreams of elves, of his wanderings within memories that all contained Gimli – yet that was not the most important thread they shared in common. No, he was struck by a profound sense that perhaps, just perhaps, Gimli was attempting to send him some sort of message from beyond, though he could not find words to explain why he thought this might be so.

“You think it is the case, then? That he is trying to contact you?” and she spoke as neutrally as she could, knowing such a thing was so unlikely as to be impossible. After all, she and Legolas had investigated every option with regard to contact with the dwarves who dwelt with Mahal, all in vain. Aulë held sympathy for them, and at the same time he would break no rules, regardless of their pleas.

“I do think he is, even as I know it is not possible,” and his tone was so adamant that an ever-so-slightly inkling of worry for the state of Legolas’ mind grew within Tauriel’s.

“Legolas,” she said carefully, “Gimli is housed where he has been since he passed from this life, and Mahal himself told us that we should not hold out hope of contact with the souls he harbors, that we would be best served to understand that we must wait until the world is remade. That is far, far more to hold onto than to hope for other things – be it reincarnation or contact from those within Mahal’s mansions.”

“Yet exceptions have been granted within the history of the world – why not for them?! For us?! I tell you, Gimli is trying to contact me!” he near-shouted in frustration – moreso because she did not believe him, she who had always been the one to champion unlikelihoods.

“He may as well be as far away from you as a mannish soul that has departed Arda, Legolas,” her voice cracking with her own long-lingering shadows of pain.

He grasped her hand as tears filled her eyes, and eventually spoke as gently as he was able. “I do not mean to upset you, Tauriel. And yet, with each day, I grow more certain that Gimli is attempting to send me a message.”

She decided then to not pursue this conversation any further, and instead drew upon the only task that truly brought any modicum of soothing ease to his fëa. “Legolas, let us go to Gimli’s garden, plant something new. Or simply enjoy the flowers, for all is in full bloom.”

He shifted slightly to gaze at her, a haunted look in his eyes. For a short moment he felt guilty – in recent centuries it was always Tauriel who assisted him in his grief, not vice versa. _How did she withstand her own?_ he wondered, though he had no true answer aside from the strength of her convictions – her heart was pledged to Kili, and his to hers, and she _knew_ he would await her when the world was remade.

His heart, on the other hand, had not been pledged in such a way, and he sank further in his distress, wondering yet again _why_ Gimli had left him, _why_ the Valar held to their rigid rules – and ultimately falling into stomach-twisting envy of the dwarves who sat alongside Gimli within Mahal’s mansions.

“Legolas,” she said again, recognizing the cycle of his thoughts, one that she knew he would never entirely place behind him. “Let’s go,” she said firmly as she pulled him upward by his hands, not releasing her forceful grip until they had mounted steeds who would carry them to the memorial garden.

His rueful smile became a happier one when the garden eventually came into view, lying as it did a short distance outside of Oromë’s forest, in the nestled foothills where the Pelori mountains swept close to the trees of the Huntsman. “You are correct as always, my dear friend,” he said as he laid a fond arm across her shoulder, “this will prove to be a balm to me.”

They stopped first at the memorial Tauriel had crafted for Kili, and each laid a stone on the granite plate that marked his passing. She spoke the Adrûthigulûb, taught to her by Aulë after she had arrived, for it had been the Vala who had assisted her with crafting her own place of healing and solitude when he had learned of the elf whose heart and spirit was broken by the untimely passing of one of his own children.

She had not planted an extensive garden that resembled the one Legolas had crafted outside of Gimli’s tomb, but rather tended a grove of trees from which the finest wood could be harvested to craft her arrows, a task that led her to feel close to him in a way that a garden would not.

Legolas left her to travel the short distance to Gimli’s resting place, marveling at the wondrous smells and kaleidoscope of color along the way. Entranced, he sat amidst the large patch of Lissuin that was perhaps his favorite location in the garden, for true to the tales of its fragrance, his heart felt at ease as its scent wafted around him.

Eventually he moved to the tomb proper, planning to lay a stone there as he did each time he visited, but was stopped short.

“Tauriel!” he yelled, and the tone of his voice led the red-haired elleth to soon appear by his side.

She did not need to ask him what was amiss, for she saw it clearly enough herself when she reached his side – the pile of stones at the tomb’s entrance had been scattered as though someone had roughly moved them out of the way to create a path. 

“Has it been further vandalized?” she asked, frowning as she shook her head, unable to believe that some elf within the Undying Lands would do such a thing.

“I know not,” Legolas answered even as he strode closer toward the tomb’s entrance to study the door.

He had not been inside since he had closed that door in his sorrow those many centuries ago, and he had no desire to disturb Gimli’s rest.

 _Yet someone else had_ , he thought as his anger erupted, his eyes flaring as he saw how the door had been opened – nay, _broken_ , damaged beyond repair.

“Come,” he said firmly as he beckoned her to follow him to their waiting steeds. “Let us inform our King, and see what he deems we should do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Adrûthigulûb_ (Khuzdul, courtesy of the Dwarrow Scholar): _"Umhûdizu tadaizd ku’ adrûthîzd, Mahal, murukhîzd udu charach bakhuzizu ra udnîn izd ana ghiluz nur"_ = Bless those who mourn, creator, shield them from the pain with your hammer and guide them to a new day.


	10. Chapter 10

Upon their arrival in the Elvenking’s Halls, Legolas and Tauriel immediately informed Thranduil of the vandalism of Gimli’s tomb – and both were stunned by the intensity of his anger, for it surpassed even Legolas’.

“What, has some pristine elf – one who never deemed to lift a dainty finger in the fight against Darkness – taken it upon themselves to send a message regarding whom is unwelcome in the land of the Valar?” Thranduil's tone was filled with disgust, even as he knew his words rang somewhat false. While the eternal lifespan of their kind made the passing of years different than it was for mortals, it seemed far too much time had passed even for an elf – or elves – to take it upon themselves to vandalize a long-dead dwarf’s tomb.

Yet there were elves within these Lands that he and those of his kingdom had their quarrels with, and he would put nothing past them.

“While Gimli was not always welcomed with open arms,” Tauriel offered, “surely I do not see why any amongst our kindred would take it upon themselves to do such a thing?”

Thranduil near-huffed, for those he suspected to be capable of this defacing were those he would never count amongst his kindred. “You forget the long memories of elves, Tauriel. Divides persist between those of the forest and outside of it, and surely chasms continue between elves and dwarves in general, regardless of the lack of living presence of the latter on these shores.” He stood, sweeping across his dias. “This is an insult both to Gimli and to the elves of our forest. Upon the morrow, I will travel with you to see this unspeakable act for myself. If we are unable to discern what occurred, we shall send for input from Oromë, or perhaps Aulë, for surely either of them will assist us. The message must be that this will not be tolerated. The Valar have clearly stated that Gimli’s tomb is ever welcome here, just as the graves of the hobbits are.”

He turned to Legolas, his expression softening as regret played upon his face, for he rued his decision not to place a permanent patrol in the memorial garden proper. “It is good that you traveled there, for otherwise we may have not known of this for some time. Tell me, what of the inner chamber? Was more defaced than just the outer door?”

Legolas shook his head as his face paled. “I did not wish to disturb his rest even further.”

“Yet we must see if something occurred inside, Legolas – and we must secure the door, for leaving it broken and wide-open places his tomb at further risk of intrusion,” Thranduil said gently.

Legolas raked his hand through his hair in frustration at his error.

“It matters not," the Elvenking said, reading the Prince's thoughts. "I know you were driven by Gimli's request that we never enter the tomb after it was closed." He paused to consider potential courses of action, realizing that his initial plan was not the most prudent. "Tauriel, arrange for guarding of the tomb until further notice. We shall deliver a message to Aulë, for his direction will ensure we do not inadvertently commit a wrong in our attempt to rectify this," and then he paused, reconsidering once more. The Vala would be of help, but not likely rapidly so. 

"On second thought, I will send for Mithrandir, for he will be of more practical assistance - and more than willing to convey messages to and from the Valar.” The Elvenking stood, planning to arrange the travel request for the former Wizard and motioning for Tauriel to follow him, but was stayed by Legolas.

“There is one more thing, my King.” Legolas cleared his throat. “I believe that Gimli may have been attempting to tell me that this had occurred.” He then proceeded to describe his recent strange experiences during reverie.

“Legolas,” Thranduil said, his initial reaction similar to Tauriel’s, “it is far more likely to be a coincidence – or, perhaps it might be that your own fëa somehow sensed that this had occurred.”

“No, my King,” Legolas replied, shaking his head vehemently, his Adar's words only serving to strengthen his conviction. “Gimli has been trying to contact me during my periods of rest.”

Thranduil sighed, not out of frustration, but from a place of compassion, and frowned as he shared a quick glance with Tauriel. “I fear you _wish_ this could be the case, even as you know it is not. It is far more likely it was your own intuition calling to you, your fëa aware that this had happened even as your conscious mind was not.”

“No, Adar – Gimli has been trying to reach me, of that I am certain, and it is only logical that this is the reason why.” Legolas said firmly, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes blazing.

“Legolas,” Thranduil said slowly, trying to reign in this discussion that seemed to exceed the bounds of reason and, more importantly, was increasingly unproductive. “His soul is housed within Aulë’s mansions, and he cannot communicate with you. Aulë told you so each and every time you traveled there with Tauriel.”

“Nay!” Legolas said sharply. “He calls for me when I enter reverie. Perhaps the vandalism of his tomb is simply part of a larger problem – he may be in need of my help!”

“Legolas, you know that an ill fate has not befallen him - and that contact with him is not a possibility,” Tauriel said, trying to speak as gently as she could. She worried that the stress of Legolas’ grief, waxing and waning over the years, had clouded his mind and produced hope for that which could not be. “Our King is correct – Gimli dwells peacefully within Mahal’s mansions, and he cannot pass without – just as we cannot pass within – nor can messages of any sort cross.” She spoke mournfully, for both she and the Prince had tried many times, only to meet compassionate, firm refusal. “Aulë himself told us that it cannot be so, even if he himself wished it could be. Gimli cannot send you a message from where he resides beyond our reach, and he certainly would not be in harm’s way. Aulë told us of his peaceful rest time and again.”

“Tauriel speaks wisely, Legolas,” Thranduil added. “Do not raise even further alarm when we must instead simply seek the truth. There is a vandal - or vandals - that must be caught. There is no dwarven soul seeking to contact you, even as I know how deeply you would like it to be so. Certainly he is not in danger.”

Legolas simply glared at the Elvenking, for while he agreed with the latter, he did not whatsoever agree with the former. Yet he spoke none of it, deeming such action to be useless, turning sharply on his heel and leaving the halls.

Thranduil fiddled with the rings he bore on his fingers, staring into space, seeming to forget that Tauriel stood nearby until she spoke softly to him. “My Lord, I fear that the strain of his loss is affecting Legolas – in a different way this time, as you have now seen. Never before has he spoken of Gimli trying to contact him – even when his grief was its deepest.”

Thranduil sighed, sagging into his throne, a posture Tauriel had seen only rarely before, and not since their departure from Middle Earth. “He wishes for that which cannot be, that which I am certain you would wish for as well. Would that he be able to communicate with the one he holds dear, let alone have _more_ – an immortal able to take comfort in the companionship of a beloved mortal soul, to treasure its presence for eternity and not simply mourn its departure… Would it be so – but it is not.”

Tauriel frowned in confusion, for Thranduil had never spoken of the relationship between Legolas and Gimli in such a way, but then simply decided he must be referencing her own loss.

He directed Tauriel to arrange both the guarding of Gimli's tomb and Olórin's summoning, and then he traveled to his private garden, lost in his own thoughts.


	11. Chapter 11

Days later in the Elvenking’s expansive throne room, Galion announced the arrival of yet another elf who sought audience with Thranduil. The stream of the Elvenking's subjects on this day had been near-continuous, and the trio of spirits who kept a nearby vigil had quickly grown bored. Or more correctly, the pair of _dwarves_ grew bored, and their focus - somewhat surprisingly- turned to arborculture. Dáin found Gimli’s trove of knowledge about this or that tree to be _interesting_ – in part because the dwarrow had assisted in the carving of tree sculptures within these Halls, and he was passionate in his recounting. 

Bard heard none of it, for he was enthralled as he observed the elf holding court. At this very moment his admiration for Thranduil may never have been more clear. “Even in the Undying Lands, he serves his people. I would have thought his life here would have been more….” 

“Similar to a life lived in paradise?” Gimli finished, reading Bard’s thoughts even as he was unable to put words to what ran through his mind. “Aye, politics are alive and well here, and Thranduil’s elves covet his leadership in these lands as much as they did in Mirkwood.” 

“Well,” Dáin said sometime later, “as much as I enjoy doing nothing in particular -- I’d rather we _did_ something about our situation.”

“And what do you propose?” Bard asked.

Dáin considered for some moments – and then came to an idea, one they had considered before and seemed to be even more of a necessity now. “We should seek the assistance of another. Such as Gandalf. Gimli's guided us to our destination - yet I've a feeling we'll be bloody banging our heads against a stone if we keep on as we are.”

Gimli nodded, agreeing that the idea had much merit, for it had originally been his own. “Or Galadriel,” for he knew she would be of assistance if she could, and he also suspected she would more readily sense their presence. “I would simply need to think upon her, or Gandalf, and we would travel to see whomever we chose.”

“Or we’d end up back with Legolas,” Dáin muttered with a smile. And then his soul glowed much brighter as an answer came to him. “Just as you used your memories to travel – _I_ could use my memories of Gandalf to seek him. No risk of ending back at that stone talan you built – no offense, laddie.”

They continued their discussion thus, but soon their planning was interrupted. Their attention was drawn to the Elvenking’s latest visitor, settled in a chair by Thranduil’s side, conversing softly with the royal elf as he smoked his pipe.

“By my beard, perhaps we need not travel so far after all. Look!” Gimli said, delighted to see who had arrived. “It’s as though he responded to you, as in a summons!”

Dáin and Bard followed Gimli‘s gaze, waiting for an explanation, for they did not recognize the stunning being that sat beside Thranduil – taken aback by the sight of the visiting elf so clearly enjoying pipeweed, an image Dáin was certain he would never see.

“Him?” Dáin asked.

“Or her?” Bard clarified.

“Aye, him. Olórin – Gandalf as you knew him, now in his Maia form – or, should I say, his preferred bodily form.” They were surprised at the disclosure – though it was somehow far from shocking. “Come, let us see if he can perceive us.” Gimli moved closer to the throne, placing himself in front of the Elvenking and the Maia - who noticed him not, remaining intensely focused on his conversation with Thranduil.

Olórin moved to partake of the wood-elves’ favored vintage, held within an elaborately jeweled wineglass. His vision raked the space before him – and then he lifted an eyebrow, squinted, and cleared his throat, settling himself back in his chair, his wineglass and the burgundy beverage within entirely forgotten.

“Well, then,” Dáin said excitedly as he turned to make sure no one was behind them, that it was indeed themselves that Gandalf saw, “that seemed to have worked!”

But when he turned back around, his soul echoed the surprise emanating from his companions – for even as Olórin continued to sit in the chair beside Thranduil, he now stood beside them as well.

“Well met,” Olórin said as his form shifted to that which was much more familiar to Bard and Dáin, that of Gandalf the Grey. “And welcome, for I am very glad to look upon you once more.”


	12. Chapter 12

Dáin was certain he had never been so happy to see Tharkûn, even as his dual appearance made no sense – but this was a _Wizard_ , after all. “Bloody hell, you're almost as welcome a sight as when my precious wee bairn entered the world. Would that I could give you a proper Iron Hills kiss! While I have many a question for you, my first one is this – what the _fuck_ is going on?!”

“Ah,” the Maia replied with a hearty smile. “I have dearly missed spending time with dwarves. It is not that I doubted Nienna’s disclosure, but at the same time I can scarcely believe this had come to pass, for Mandos does not yield to such requests.”

“Nienna?” Bard asked, utterly confused, for he had no firm memories of the Maia in his wizard form, and certainly not of the Vala that Olórin had served. Yet he felt a degree of comfort in his presence that heartened his spirit, bolstering his resolve to see this quest completed. 

“Yes, Bard of Dale – Nienna, sister of Mandos, and I am certain she has visited you within the Halls, even if you do not recall it. Indeed, I suspect it was her will that led him to release you from his keeping in the first place. It is her command that brings me here, to assist you in your Quest.”

“That is welcome news indeed,” Gimli said. “She must have known, then, that none have seen nor heard us, though I would daresay Legolas appears vaguely aware that I am near. It saddens me that my presence distresses him.”

“And I am here to tell you, Gimli son of Glóin, to consider what is close to you, for therein may lay answers.”

“Do you mean yourself, dear Wizard? For _you_ are a spirit, are you not, and certainly we have seen you interact with these living creatures?” Dáin looked back to where Thranduil sat. “Bloody hell, I can take it no longer. Tell me why there's a double of you sitting beside the Elvenking, enjoying wine and chatting as though it's hobbit teatime?”

“A good question indeed,” Olórin replied, saying nothing further. 

“Perhaps you might inform Thranduil of my presence, that I wish to speak with him? Through you?” Bard’s voice cut through the silence, preempting Dáin from muttering curses at Gandalf.

“I think that would extend beyond the assistance I am permitted to provide to you,” Olórin said softly.

Gimli nodded, for such was not unexpected. “What of journeying with us, resuming your role as guide one final time?”

Olórin sighed, his eyes wistful and warm. “I should like nothing better, but once more, the Valar will not permit it. No, dear Gimli, you have been assigned that role in this quest.”

“Then may we simply partake of your wisdom? May you provide us a map, as it were, of what we should consider?”

“Perhaps in a vague way, I might, but not forthrightly, for such would similarly place me in the role of your direct guide, in spirit if not in form,” Olórin replied, the refusal difficult, for he wanted nothing more to help the trio before him – hence his seeking of them in the first place.

And while Dáin and the others recognized this easily, all the time the trio had spent thus far – with no outcome whatsoever in hand – bore down upon Dáin, and he erupted, even as he knew it was not entirely fair to the Maia who stood before them. “What, were you sent here to hold carrots before our noses as though we were but sluggish ponies?! Where's the fierce meddlesome wizard that I knew while I lived? Come now, and meddle!” 

“Calm yourself, Dáin son of Náin son of Grór,” the Maia said firmly, his inherent power thrumming beneath his words, his eyes flashing with the brand of annoyance that was characteristic of the Wizard they had known so well. “I will say once more – consider that which is close to you, for therein may lay answers!” And with fire in his eyes, he waved his hand – none of the trio of spirits truly understanding how painstaking the action was, nor the extent to which he was meddling more than he should – and the Elvenking’s halls faded away, replaced by a wide path bordered by tall hedges and majestic trees.

Gimli had no recollection of their new locale whatsoever, and he was utterly confused. 

“Well,” Dáin eventually murmured, feeling equally as discombobulated as his companions, even as he was the only one who could find his voice. “ _This_ is the Gandalf I remember. Appears just when you need him most – and disappears just as bloody quickly, off to do only Mahal knows what. Durin’s balls, I ask again – what the fuck is going on?!”

“What the fuck, indeed,” Gimli murmured as he spotted a flicker in the distance. “Follow me,” he said, and moved toward the gleaming light without any further explanation.

Bard looked quizzically at Dáin, who shrugged as best as a spirit could. “Bloody hell laddie, as if I have any idea what in Durin’s good name he sees. Come then, before he gets away from us entirely.”


	13. Chapter 13

There was one memory that Thranduil’s son had returned to time and again when he lost himself in regret, studying it as Gimli would examine one of his finished pieces of stonework or jewelry, turning it over and over again as he searched for imperfections. 

The difference here being clear, for the memory – and his decisions over the course of Gimli’s life – held far too many errors for Legolas’ liking, while Gimli's crafting typically held few or none.

They had traveled to Galadriel’s wood to partake in the Silvan celebrations she and Celeborn held each midsummer, a tradition they had continued across the Sea. Shortly after arriving, it became clear that Gimli would not make the return journey to the Elvenking's realm.

“Do not leave me yet, for I am not ready,” the Prince whispered. They sat in the ground pavilion constructed for them when Gimli's rapidly deteriorating mobility became apparent, his aged body unable to travel the ramps into the guest talan in the trees above.

Gimli’s expression quickly grew as forlorn as Legolas’ own.

“I would stay forever by your side were I able, yet my soul grows too weary even for these fine shores,” Gimli replied, holding Legolas’ hand in his own gnarled one. “It is a time that I wish was not upon us – and yet we both knew it would come, even if it seems too soon. Yet any span of time would be far too soon to be forced to leave your side. Nay, I would rather focus on the treasures of our travels together, for they will carry me through my eternal rest in my Maker’s halls.”

To the elf, it had seemed the dwarf had aged years upon years in the span of only a few weeks, and it had been obvious to both that their time together was nearing its end. Yet it had remained unspoken – until now.

“We have had a good life together, have we not?” Gimli said as he stared into the forest, puffing his pipe, trying to bring some semblance of normality to the present – and Legolas had the sudden urge to rip it from his hands.

Gimli looked at him out of the corner of his eye, putting his pipe to the side, Legolas not knowing whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

“I would have you keep this for me, to remember me by, for even if our days together grow short, our memories need not,” the dwarf eventually said, undoing the locket his Adad had passed on to him as the end of his own days approached. Gimli near-reverently placed it around Legolas’ neck after the elf nodded his silent permission.

And then Legolas was startled from his waking memory, for instead of pondering what he wished he had said on that tumultuous summer’s day, he was struck by the way in which the locket around his neck took on an unusual white glow. As he moved to touch it, he would have sworn upon Eru’s name that he felt Gimli’s soul touch his own.

Gimli felt the same touch, and his cry of satisfaction upon his success startled both Bard and Dáin out of their study of the strange forest around them, for it had seemed hours had passed since Gimli had been attempting to touch the white light that he followed, even if it may have only been minutes in the waking world.

“Durin’s balls, laddie! You sound like a wounded crow! Tell me,” the King said, switching to a more serious tone, “was that a signal of success or –“

The happiness that emanated from Gimli’s soul answered Dáin's question before he had an opportunity to finish asking it.

“Durin’s hairy beard and balls,” Bard said suddenly, and the dwarves were caught between surprise and laughter, “it seems I should give this a try. Tell me, Gimli, what to do.”

“Aye, I will,” the dwarrow replied, overcome by what he had just experienced, and not willing to let it go just yet. “But first let me see if I can accomplish this feat once more, for I do not want to lose what I have just attained.”


	14. Chapter 14

Several millennia had passed since Thranduil had last witnessed his son run toward him in the sheer, unfettered exuberance of youth – and he would not have predicted it would occur again, not in _this_ manner.

Yet the Legolas rapidly approaching him reminded the King of his elfling – radiant joy emanating from every facet of his being, his fëa glowing in unabated happiness.

“Adar,” he said, no hint of his stern adult façade in sight, “I felt it! Gimli’s soul touched my own! Twice!”

Thranduil felt his own heart crack slightly even as he knew that Legolas’ own was buoyed – by false hope. The Elvenking saw nothing to be celebrated in the Prince's experience. Rather, he feared his son’s desires had led him even further from the world of actualities than he had thought was the case.

Legolas knew his King far too well, easily reading the doubt that simmered beneath his near-impassable profile. “You do not believe me,” he said softly, his excitement dimming as his countenance was clearly replaced with sheer disappointment.

“Legolas,” Thranduil said carefully, “I merely believe that there may be another explanation for what you have perceived.”

A furrow in his son’s brow and the clenching of fists formed the bulk of the Prince’s cold response. “Nay, there is no need to speak of your doubt. Far more is possible after death than what you would like to admit.”

“Legolas – “

“The logical explanation, my King,” Legolas said coldly, “is what I have already stated. You, Tauriel, and any other you care to name may believe I merely wish for that which I speak of – yet I _know_ that this is no mere wanting. I _feel_ it.”

Thranduil hadn’t the desire to argue any further – indeed, he had no desire to drive his son away from him, _not again_. “Legolas, Olórin has arrived to examine the vandalism of Gimli’s tomb. I only ask that you consider any alternative explanation he might suggest regarding these experiences of yours.”

“Nay, he will see the _truth_.” Legolas replied, crossing his arms before him, his body stiffening in a terse, tight posture.

“Sit, Legolas,” the Elvenking beckoned, doing his best to hide his worry, “while I summon him.”

Legolas did as his King requested, any ill feeling at not being believed outweighed by his conviction that Mithrandir would be the one most likely to see the truth – and if he convinced his Adar of it, or not, so be it.

Olórin listened to both elves carefully, his ever-thoughtful eyes studying them closely. “There is much in life that is beyond our reckoning. I would not so readily discount what your son states, Thranduil –“ and at Legolas’ look of triumph, he said firmly, “neither would I pin your hopes on that which cannot be,” easily reading Legolas’ desire to be reunited, even temporarily, with Gimli.

The instant rise of hope and equally fast deflation of it playing across his son’s face wrenched the Elvenking’s heart even further. Surely Olórin’s words were filled with their own share of foolishness. It could not be forgotten this was _Gandalf_ , his hidden ends _just that_ , and Thranduil had no patience for it, not where Legolas was concerned.

“I would have you _help_ my son, Olórin,” Thranduil said pointedly, eyes narrowing as his face tilted in disdain.

“And would you help him as well?” the former White Wizard replied, nonplussed. He had no desire to defend himself against the Elvenking’s mistrust of his motives.

“Of course!” the Elvenking said, his tone cold and unforgiving, less of a sign of affront at Olórin's words than it was a means to disguise his distress as he witnessed his son’s wish for impossibilities.

“I have no need for assistance – I only desire that you _believe me_ ,” Legolas interrupted, his tone matching his Adar’s.

Thranduil bristled – and then relented against his own better judgment. He could not bear to be the source of Legolas’ despair, not in light of the mistakes he had made in the past.

He would do what he could to support the Prince – and do his best to comfort him when he realized that his wishes and desires were _just that._

After all, Thranduil knew of unfulfilled desires and dreams, firsthand and far too well.

“What would you have me do?” the Elvenking asked Olórin.

“Travel with me to Gimli’s tomb,” Legolas said before Olórin could himself respond. “He tries to contact me from there whilst I am in reverie; perhaps you shall see it as well if you join me.”

Thranduil turned to Olórin, his eyes betraying his skepticism. “It would not hurt to do so,” the Maia said, “and then I shall see this damage you speak of with my own eyes, for such was your plan when you summoned me, was it not?”

The Elvenking entirely agreed with the latter – yet the former filled him with a hesitation whose source was not entirely clear.


	15. Chapter 15

Their travel to Gimli’s tomb was swift and unfettered – aside from the ominous knots that took further hold within Thranduil as their sure-footed steeds gained distance toward their destination. Legolas, on the other hand, observed an equally potent, eager desire blossom with regard to his dual purpose in undertaking this journey. Certainly he wanted to solve the mystery of the vandalism of his friend’s final resting place. Yet more deeply he yearned for his Adar to _understand_ , to _believe_ that which he knew to be the truth - and he was certain said truth would be found within Gimli's memorial garden.

His Adar’s doubt, Tauriel’s doubt - both fanned his determination to prove that his contact with Gimli was not the product of an overactive mind combined with deeply held grief, but instead was exactly what he thought it to be - an attempt to contact him from a world that lay apart from this one.

If they did not shed their doubt, he knew that he would soon start to disbelieve himself – for even if he would not yet permit such thoughts to take hold, he had carried his own doubt since the strange occurrences had begun.

When they reached the blooming, fragrant garden of remembrance, the guards posted there wordlessly followed Thranduil's command for privacy, stationing themselves with those who now patrolled the perimeter. As the trio stood before the broken door of Gimli's tomb, Thranduil’s anger flashed anew, his fëa nearly blazing brighter than the Silmaril that would soon begin its nightly voyage in the skies above. “It is worse than I had thought it to be,” he said softly as he stooped to inspect the scattered stones at the tomb's entrance. He lost further words as he shook his head at this defacing, his hand reaching to neatly stack those stones situated before him. But he stopped before any were touched, his expression wordlessly asking Olórin if such contact was permissible within the customs and traditions of Aulë's folk.

“Let us take inventory of the damage before we move to restore all that was torn asunder.” Olórin's tone was commanding as he deftly moved forward. He carefully tested the condition of the stone door that hung askew on its hinges, and then peered inside the tomb proper.

“Is all well within?” Legolas asked softly after some moments had passed, his heart beating more thunderously that it had in an age, for the thought of gazing upon Gimli’s still form filled him with anxious dread.

“Worry not.” Olórin turned to send a reassuring glance in Legolas’ direction after his keen eyes had discerned what lay within the stone beyond. “There is but one item misplaced, and I will return it to its rightful position.”

The Maia sent a prayer to Mahal in perfectly-accented Khuzdul prior to entering the tomb. Thranduil moved to Legolas’ side and placed an arm around his shoulders. It was strange for either of them to touch the other, but both found a warm comfort in the awkward gesture that outweighed anything else elicited by their uncharacteristic physical closeness.

Just as the Elvenking's apprehension was about to prompt his recall of the Maia from the stone cavern, Olórin emerged, muttering to himself in the manner that reminded both elves of his long-distant Grey Wizard form.

In his ageless hands he cradled a small stone box that Legolas instantly recognized, drawing a gasp from the Prince as he lunged to intercept Olórin's forward movement. “Mithrandir!” Legolas yelled simultaneously, the tenfold-grown anxiety in his voice startling the Maia from his contemplation of that which he held in his hands. “You cannot remove that from his tomb – taking something which he held in his hands for so long would surely disrupt his eternal rest even further!”

“I would surely agree with you, son of Thranduil,” Olórin said sharply, “would it remain there, resting as it should atop his axe!”

“Has it been enchanted?” Thranduil murmured, narrowing his eyes as he moved to inspect the box more closely. From his short distance away he could determine nothing that seemed to be amiss.

“I think not,” Olórin replied. “At least it is not bound by or infused with any spell that I am able to detect. Yet it thrums with a strange intensity that I do not understand.”

“Is Gimli in danger?” A lump grew in Legolas' throat, for surely this did not portend something of a good nature.

“No, I do not think so.” Olórin studied the box further, turning it in his hands. “Not as far as I can sense,” he added and began to walk into the garden surrounding Gimli’s tomb, muttering to himself as he went.

“Well, this is not what I had expected,” Legolas said, at a loss for further words.

Thranduil nodded his agreement.

“Do you know what is held within?” Olórin sat on a bench amidst the blooming flowers nearby, studying the small container the entire while. To some extent he was puzzled about the exact significance of the stone box – or more correctly, the potential implications of its strange state.

“No,” Legolas replied. “I have never opened it – yet, as I am certain you know, Gimli carried it throughout all of our travels. I have always assumed it contains mementos from our journeys.”

The Prince moved in his ever-graceful manner to Olórin’s side, reluctant to touch the box itself, for his worry had returned regarding what customs he might be infringing upon by doing so.

Olórin was also concerned about infringement - moreso upon Gimli’s privacy – and this battled with the potential necessity of doing so.

Ultimately the latter was deemed more important than the former, for the Maia certainly did not fully understand what lay before him, and the elves understood it far less.

“You need not watch if this bothers you - I do not think it is necessary that you view that which is held within,” the Maia told Legolas, clearly seeing his discomfort.

Legolas shook his head. “As long as you are certain that Aulë - and Gimli - would have no quarrel with this, I shall accept it.”

Olórin nodded in response, and set upon opening the stone container.

“Is this a puzzle box?” he soon murmured, surprised that he was unable to open it with his deft fingers, for he had seen Gimli do so easily. While he himself never looked inside, he had always thought it to be a simple _container,_ no more, no less.

“No,” Legolas said, a deep frown creasing his brow, “I crafted it myself – I had not the skill to add such a mechanism, certainly not at that time and not even now.”

“Did you place a locking mechanism within? Or did he?” Olórin asked as he turned the box over in his hands during the course of yet another inspection.

“No,” Legolas replied, “that is why I have always assumed it contains trinkets, simple mementos from our journeys – it was important to him, yet he never guarded it as though it contained priceless jewels and gems.”

“Yet it was priceless enough to him,” Thranduil interrupted, for he had seen the dwarf handle the box on a sufficient number of occasions to know this firsthand - although, similar to his son, the Elvenking had also assumed the box contained items whose value was primarily of the sentimental sort. 

Legolas nodded his head slightly in agreement, both elves focusing their attention on Olórin’s myriad attempts to open the stone container – yet the Maia did not succeed.

“Unfortunate that there is no hobbit here to speak the words that would grant you entrance to its contents,” Thranduil said dryly, a barely perceptible grin settling on his face as Olórin narrowed his eyes good-naturedly in response.

“I will leave you to your study of my son’s handiwork,” the Elvenking said as he swept off while the Maia returned to his present conundrum. He beckoned Legolas to follow, agreeing that they would inspect the grounds of the garden more thoroughly to determine if any other part of it was awry, even if slightly.

The remainder of the day passed with little else of note. As night took hold they placed their respective tasks to the side, sitting together upon benches that had been crafted by Galadriel's hands, debating potential courses of action.

“Perhaps one of us might attempt to open it. Legolas?” Thranduil turned toward his son, his hröa seeming to glow in the night air, much as his companions did. “You crafted it, perhaps you might try, for whatever is amiss with it may be most receptive to banishment by your touch.”

Legolas closed his eyes briefly, his reluctance battling with his desire to hold the box in his hands – and when he opened them, he saw empathy - and encouragement - bloom in Olórin’s gaze. And so he nodded, holding his hand out to receive the container he had crafted so long ago, something he never thought he would run his fingers over again, much as he had known that he would never again touch Gimli’s living form.

The night wore on as the Prince tried in vain to lift the lid of the container both physically and with words and gestures, eventually exhausting both Thranduil and Olórin’s repertoire of suggestions.

“Dawn will arrive soon - would either of you like to rest before we try this once more?” Olórin asked, perhaps in hope of diversion, for his frustration was beginning to kindle.

Both elves shook their heads, and then Thranduil looked to Legolas. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the box.

Legolas passed the box to his King, Thranduil holding it gently in his hands. “I continue to think your handiwork here was impressive, regardless of your own thoughts on the matter." He ran his hand over the top of the imperfectly-carved box – and it opened, the lid lifting as the Elvenking's traveling companions stared at him in sheer confusion.

Yet even more confusing were the contents.

Inside lay a single stone - and naught else.

“But this cannot be – I am certain that much more was contained within,” Legolas murmured tersely, and then drew a sharp breath. "They took his belongings and left this behind, to mock him! Or worse!"

“And as we do not know what was held within, there may have been an item of value that was sought by this thief - or _not_ , for it may have simply been their message of unwelcome they sought to convey," Thranduil said in disgust. 

"Calm yourself,” Olórin said firmly, turning the stone in his hands. “I do not think such was the case."

"It is a bait, of that I am certain, for I can sense its call to us even from where I stand." Legolas reached for the stone, Olórin passing it to him wordlessly. The Prince was troubled by the clouded, grey speech of the stone, something that resembled objects found within withered, desolate realms. 

"It speaks of Irmo's lands," the Prince remarked following his own brief period of study. "Why would one who dwells within a place of peace seek to cause such destruction, to taunt us to track their steps?"

Thranduil moved his head slightly to the side, contemplating his son's words and ultimately disagreeing with them. "Or to send a message of hope, for you know as well as I that Irmo's gardens have naught to do with ill means or ends."

"You believe me then, that Gimli seeks me?" Legolas looked to his King as a secondary, _better_ explanation came to mind - that this stone was a signal of some sort from the dwarf, for _surely_ a piece of the earth from the realm of the Vala of dreams might relate in some manner to his recent experiences in reverie.

Legolas' gaze was so filled with hope that Thranduil had not the heart to speak hurtful words - words hurtful due to their truthfulness. 

"Perhaps Gimli himself placed it there," Thranduil said carefully, "to bring your heart ease when it might have need of it, just as some of the flowers you planted here do the same. And perchance the other objects held within traveled with him to the Halls. Perhaps such is permitted for his folk, even if it is not for ours."

"Even were all of that true, why will the box not return to its rightful place?" Legolas sent a beseeching look in Olórin's direction, knowing the Maia was best suited to find an answer to his questions.

"I spent much time within the Gardens of Lórien, as you know - and even so I do not fully understand the properties of the flora and stone found there. It would be futile to speculate when we may seek our answer directly from those who dwell within Lord Irmo's realm." Olórin said.

“You believe those who make their home within the lands of Irmo and Estë are responsible for this?” Thranduil said incredulously, sweeping his arm before the tableau of Gimli's tomb.

“No, no, certainly not – but there we may find an answer,” the Maia replied.

Thranduil and Legolas shared a glance. From any other, the response would be unsatisfying in its vagueness – yet this was _Mithrandir_ , and they knew pressing him for more would yield nothing of use. At minimum, they would well agree that Irmo and Estë's folk seemed unlikely to have a quarrel with a long-deceased dwarf, for their foremost concern had always been that of hope and peace.

Yet the thought of traveling to Irmo's domain filled the Elvenking with an inexplicably strong resistance. He decided his dread must relate to concern for his son, even if said explanation seemed unsatisfactory and insufficient. “This would not be the first time I have doubted the wisdom of your guidance,” Thranduil said firmly.

“And if we are blessed by the Valar, ideally it will not be the last, for neither you nor I would choose to spend eternity with no surprises along the way,” Olórin replied, Legolas hiding his smirk.

“In that you have a point. Very well, let us travel there” – _but do not wear my patience thin_ , the latter spoken wordlessly. In the undercurrent of the Elvenking's thoughts Olórin could clearly sense his desire to see no undue harm fall upon Legolas - and Thranduil's unnamed fear of what might await him at their destination.

 _I am no dealer of false hope, Thranduil,_ the Maia responded, his firm voice echoing in the recesses of the Elvenking's mind.


	16. Chapter 16

“What I would not give for a wee bite to eat and a stiff drink. Preferably of the variety we might actually consume.” The King under the Mountain floated near the top of the steeply banking slope of a seemingly endless path - the very pathway that had been made apparent by Gandalf, an occurrence none of them yet understood. The trio of spirits had traversed its gray gloom for what seemed to be many a day, buoyed by Gimli’s success in touching Legolas’ fëa – contact defined as much by its certainty as its brevity.

“Aye – or a share of Gandalf’s pipe,” Gimli said in response to his King’s wistful desire for forms of sustenance suited to living forms. “Should he return to us, of course. Which he will – when the time is right, of that I am certain.”

“Hmph,” Dáin muttered good-naturedly. “I’ll be one dwarf not holding my breath, so to speak. Nay, laddie - his time with us was through. He said himself he could do little more to assist us, that it was simply not allowed. The Valar's rigid rules can only be bent so sodding far, it seems.”

He paused, a thoughtful frown forming on his vaporous face. “What say you, my dear lad, to seeking your ever-favored Lady of the Wood? I know you have said that she and Thranduil share no great love for one another, yet surely they are bloody well cordial enough that she might assist in Bard’s quest? Her power of influence is not insignificant, from what you have recounted.”

“You suggest that Galadriel might somehow encourage Thranduil to be more – open – to Bard’s attempts to contact him?”

The unbelieving doubt that sketched across Gimli’s ghostly face led Dáin to sigh in resignation. “I bloody well take it that I’ll witness both of them growing majestic beards rivaling my own before that’ll happen?”

“Aye. If we seek assistance from any other for that reason, it would best be Legolas - I sense my contact with him will continue to blossom, and I am certain he would be willing to provide help. Perhaps Lady Galadriel might assist in other ways – yet I am reluctant to leave this path, for we have not explored it fully, and Gandalf clearly told us to seek that which was close to us.”

“No – not seek, but _consider_ , although practically speaking they are one and the same,” Bard said, the dwarrows’ attention drawn to where he floated some distance down the path. The King of Dale had been gazing at no particular scene, for _inadequate_ remained the primary quality of their vision in this ever-hazy plane in which they found themselves. Yet even if he had been in possession of the keenest sight of any living being who walked the Undying Lands, it would matter not, for his thoughts were entirely elsewhere. The upturn in the Gimli’s mood was mirrored by a gradual downturn in Bard’s own. Each unsuccessful attempt to touch Thranduil’s fëa gradually peeled away the former Bowman’s resolve, almost as though the grayness of the world around them was beginning to infiltrate the very core of his being.

“From the tales you have told, I would consider the Lady of the Wood to be close to you,” the mannish spirit continued.

“Aye, true enough – yet as sure as Durin’s aim is true, excessive heed of a Wizard’s words might lead us astray in a different manner. No, I do not think he spoke to us in riddles – by my Maker, he intended for us to traverse this path. We simply must find a means for you to reach the one you yearn for, and perhaps said means is Thranduil's son.”

“He remains so very far away,” Bard whispered at Gimli's mention of the Elvenking, “as though every part of him resists me at each turn.”

“Durin’s fabled mithril chisel, that’s an understatement if I bloody well ever heard one,” Dáin muttered, smiling slightly in response to Bard’s look of confusion. “Laddie, should you ever regain enough of your memories, you’ll know well enough that your treasured Love is perhaps the most stubborn, unyielding, obstinate -“

“You imply he’s – pig-headed?” Bard interrupted, his mood momentarily buoyed by the words of the King under the Mountain.

“Nay, I’ve too much fondness for those precious animals to speak of them as such! But yes, the Elvenking is renowned for many things, not least of which is his unyielding ability to maintain his focus on his chosen goal."

“Ever the diplomat, you are,” Gimli said affably, knowing such was indeed one of his fierce leader's strongest attributes - when he desired it to be. “Yet I would agree – our work may be cut out for us here, but surely the result will be its own reward, to see your beloved well and whole.”

“Aye,“ Dáin said. “Your spirit is flagging, my dear friend – I would see the stars return to your eyes, the ones that lead you to see love even in mere friendship at every turn, wishing your outcome upon others.”

“Death and eternal parting from one I love? I think not.” Bard said, wishing he understood how such a thing had come to pass for him, wondering _why_ he could _still_ not recall the events that had led to the sundering of his relationship with the elf who had apparently become his bonded mate - at least so Gimli had postulated on the basis of the link that seemed to exist between their respective souls, a link that continued to be barricaded at every turn. And then words flowed from him, even as he did not truly recognize the source or the cause of his burgeoning hope. “Knowing the taste of love, even if it is only for a brief moment in the long span of years that lay before us until the world is remade? Yes. I would wish that upon anyone.”

 _Aye_ , Gimli added in his mind as he battled his regret, wondering if such a taste was indeed worth more than any span of time spent with love completely unsavored.

There had been a time while he yet lived in which Dáin would have rather consumed a pile of rocks than speak his next words – yet all the same, he wished he’d known of all that had passed while Bard had walked Middle Earth, for then he might have found cause to knock some sense into him - or into the elf that had captured his heart. “Just think upon his pretty head, my friend – and all else that brought you to love him.”

“Would that I could do just that - 'tis slightly more challenging when I have so few memories to guide me,” Bard replied with fondness, nevertheless turning his attention to the task the King under the Mountain had appointed to him.

And so time passed, the trio finding themselves at an essential standstill in their quest to reach the Elvenking – a temporary pause, they hoped.

The crafting of their next course of action did not come easily, for they knew not what to do aside from Gimli striving to reach Legolas again - a task he savored more than any other, truth be told. And while dwarven endurance was indeed remarkable, even their souls continued to grow ever-slightly more weary as time passed, set apart as they were from their rightful housing.

Gimli was on the verge of setting forth to contact Legolas once more when Bard spoke suddenly. “I sense that something has changed,” his focus interrupted from its study of the ever-present gray haze that formed their horizon. His luminescent profile seemed to glow even more brightly against the backdrop presented by the tall hedges and trees that formed the perimeter of their current surround.

“Aye, what’s that now?” Dáin responded, a frown creasing his ephemeral face, quickly replaced with a look of triumph as a thought percolated within. Perhaps success was within their immaterial grasp! “By the Seven Stars, I _knew_ that elf would be unable to resist your charms much longer, as must have been the case while you yet lived. You sense your beloved is near, then? 

“No,” Bard replied, a strange intermingling of confusion and wonder weaving with his spoken words, “or perhaps – yes.”

Dáin raised his eyebrows when Gimli's gaze met his own. And then he shrugged his vaporous shoulders, more than willing to await what Bard teetered on the edge of discovering, even as the King of Dale could only _sense_ , and not _explain_ it as such: A new, albeit distant means of carving a path to the Elvenking.


	17. Chapter 17

There was a depth of comfort to be found in this newly-crowned King of men - a warmth Thranduil had not experienced for so very long – if ever, perhaps.

To be apart from his mortal love placed a strain upon his heart, an ache that he'd futilely attempted to ignore. His Halls seemed even more cold than the veritable frost emanating from them prior to the appearance of Thorin Oakenshield and his company in the beloved forest of the wood-elves.

And now the Elvenking could wait no longer, even as his mind repeated - logically, in a most detached manner - that it was not yet time for Bard to set forth for Mirkwood.

Somehow, his fëa sensed differently.

Seated atop his elk, he led his small escort with impatient speed, intending to settle within a well-concealed outpost high in the trees to await the arrival of the King of Dale.

How, the Elvenking wondered, did he not sense what moved towards him as he reached the edge of the forest? Yet there he was, dark hair flowing in the wind, easily placed apart from his own small retinue, his smile warm, bearing no hint of royal censure or false propriety.

The Elvenking could not - would never - match such ease of manner. Yet it mattered not, for his heart yearned for the other's care and companionship no less.

Seated astride their respective steeds, nodding deferentially to one another, none of their companions would guess the true nature of their relationship. Or so, at least, they were able to tell themselves.

“It has been long – far too long,” Bard said, grey eyes warm and filled with love - a sight meant solely for the gaze of the son of Oropher.

And then the scene shifted into one that Thranduil could not place - indeed, he knew it was one he had not viewed while Bard yet lived - and the King of Dale’s eyes filled with sorrow, an unspoken apology written across his gentle, strong face.

The image echoed in endless directions within his mind, and Thranduil was immobilized in that strange place between full alertness and deep reverie, uncertain which he would prefer to be held within. _Neither_ , he knew as he was filled with all and every emotion he had ever experienced, flowing through and around him all at once.

“Adar? My Lord?”

He heard Legolas’ voice at his side, for a moment puzzled as he pondered his son's presence. Yet it served to abruptly pull the Elvenking more completely to the world of the present - achingly empty as it seemed in contrast to what had just been playing through his mind.

He met his son’s concerned glance with his own bewildered visage.

“My King, you were speaking strange words during reverie,” the Prince said, his tone overflowing with the depth of his unease. “Do you have need for us to make camp and rest? Perhaps reverie atop your steed is –“

Thranduil raised his hand - firmly, yet gently - to signal Legolas to cease his caring, inquisitive words. While he appreciated his son's consideration, any disclosure on his part seemed far too complex - and undesirable.

And so he settled for a minimal response, one that he hoped would ease his son's misgivings and not add to his burdens. “As we draw closer to Irmo’s lands, my reverie has grown more strange, yet I believe it is simply the part of me that remains reluctant to live in the Undying Lands that is coming to the fore.”

It was the truth - Irmo's gardens and the strange, beautiful flora within served as a stark reminder of the ever somewhat foreign soil upon which he walked.  And yet, at the same time, it was not quite so. Legolas’ proclamation of Gimli’s attempts to contact him from the world beyond that of the living had filled his thoughts with remembrances of Bard. Now his reverie solely contained ever-flowing memories of the King of Dale, his recollections waxing to a degree they had not done for centuries.

Legolas’ eyebrows knitted together, his frown reflecting his lack of understanding – and disbelief, for he knew something was amiss, yet not _what_.

The Elvenking ignored the inquisitive, knowing glance from Olórin, one that was filled with empathy, and came to a decision.

He would do his best to avoid deep rest until they left Irmo’s lands.

For as they approached the realm of the Vala of Dreams, these love-filled recollections grew ever more detailed and _real_ , a wearisome process in itself. Still worse, Thranduil knew they would be followed by painfully detailed memories of all that had gone wrong, blame for one and the same rightfully borne by them both.

 _That_ was best left buried in the past, even if he had to entomb a large portion of his heart within the recesses of his fëa to do so.

****

The myriad smells of the Gardens reached them before Irmo’s realm was in sight – and their arrival did not go unwelcomed.

A Maia who served both the Lord and Lady of the Gardens greeted them as they approached, her shining silver form serving as a beacon of sorts in the dim light that marked the advent of nightfall. _Well met, dear ones_ , she spoke in their minds before their keen ears would have been aware of the sound of her voice. _Come, I have prepared a place for you to rest this eve._

She escorted them to one of Irmo's many private groves, this one surrounded by brilliantly-red poppies and yew. Through the center of its clearing ran a small waterfall with spray that glittered as though it was a shower of finely-cut diamonds, emitting sounds more peaceful than any waters to be found elsewhere in Aman. She served a simple meal of dried fruit to the trio as they sat on the clover-covered bank, studying them intently.

“I do not typically see Olórin travel in such a determined manner with others – tell me, what brings you to our gardens?”

Before Olórin could reply, Legolas removed Gimli’s stone container from his pack, reverently unwrapping the cloth he had placed around it protectively - and unnecessarily, he knew. “We seek the one who did _this_ – or the answer to its prompting,” and he removed the stone held within the box he had crafted those long centuries ago.

Olórin frowned, not certain that he wanted to divulge such specifics, instantly regretting that he had not anticipated the Prince’s eagerness to solve this particular mystery. “Aistë,” he said, speaking his fellow Maia’s name, “would that you have suggestions, we would welcome them.” _And your discretion as well,_ he added in her mind.

She nodded, amenable to both requests, and took the stone from Legolas’ hand, a troubled expression playing upon her ageless face. “It appears to be an Olosondo, yet surely you recognize it as one and the same, Olórin?”

He frowned, puzzled at her speedy clarity and his own lack thereof. “I do not – I have not heard of such a thing.”

“Of course, I apologize. Our Lord Irmo and Lady Estë crafted them with Lord Aulë whilst you served over the Sea. They number only three, designed to bring Lady Celebrían relief from her torment, for even Lord Irmo could not halt the unspeakable nightmares that ceaselessly haunted her. Held within her hands and placed atop her heart, they were to erase those terrors and replace them with dreams of an entirely different sort, drawing upon the fondly-held desires of her heart.”

“Yet she speaks not of such stones, and she has fully recounted her recovery to both myself and Elrond Eärendilion,” Olórin said slowly, skepticism woven throughout his tone.

“She would not remember. Yet where did you find this, for I had thought the stones had been secured?”

The occurrences that had brought them hence were then described, and by the end of said recounting Aistë looked at Legolas with such compassion that his entire being was filled with a sensation of comfort and serenity. “I do not think your reverie signals Lord Gimli's beckoning for you, dear one. The law of the Valar is firm - unyielding - and Lord Aulë could not allow such to occur. It is far more likely that this stone produced that which you experienced." She paused, a furrow forming on her faintly glowing face as she considered the matter further. "I would suggest to you that the Olosondo grew weary within its stone confines, and – acted outside of its bounds.”

“Meaning the stone somehow blasted open the door, and sent forth my son's experiences in reverie,” Thranduil said slowly as he sought to further understand that which she spoke of, wishing in that moment that her words were not so, for he easily recognized the well-hidden disappointment that flowed across his son's face.

“Precisely, King Thranduil. Stone speaking to stone and beckoning it to act according to its will - and once freed, sending forth dreams to the one who was closest to Lord Gimli. Perhaps Lord Irmo himself provided the Olosondo to Lord Gimli, intending to bring ease and welcome visions to his eternal rest, and simply did not foresee that this would occur. As you well know, it would not be the first time an object of Aman has acted unpredictably. Regardless, Lord Irmo will wish to know immediately, for there may be consequences in addition to the most unfortunate breakage that was wrought upon Lord Gimli's tomb - and the dreams you have experienced. I recommend that we bring the Olosondo to him, and verify that he agrees with that which I postulate. I would ask that you accompany me, for he may wish to converse with you as well.” _Discretely, of course,_ she added in Olórin's mind.

And in Aman’s Garden of peace and hope, Legolas found himself utterly disappointed, for this was not what his heart had wished to hear.

Aistë sensed this even before his feelings began to kindle, for she could not bring ease to hearts without being able to read them, and millennium upon millennium of practice made it such that she could do so with all speed. _Do not despair, for the wishes of your heart are to be treasured, are they not, even if reality is not what a dream might suggest?_ Legolas' eyes closed, his expression pained, while she brought what balm to his fëa that she could.

 _You are the wisest amongst us,_ she said next in Olórin's mind, her care echoing powerfully throughout, _yet even you may misinterpret that which is reality due to the visions sent forth by this stone, for it bears great power._

 _You suggest I - and perhaps Lady Nienna herself - have been party to a joint delusion of sorts?_ he replied, his eyes piercing hers so strongly that she was filled with unease.

Olórin said nothing further - yet whether this was due to acceptance of her explained cause of all that had occurred thus far, or because he paid her words no heed, Aistë could not say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olosondo (Quenya) = Dream Stone (Olos = dream/vision + ondo = rock/stone)


	18. Chapter 18

Before he’d sensed _something_ had changed in his quest to make amends with Thranduil, Bard had tasted bittersweet, mere whispers of success, events Gimli had likened to one of the Iron Hill’s ingenuous spigots opening for a fraction of a moment before being abruptly closed.

Now Bard could feel his gain in momentum as though it seeped from the very path he found himself on. While he could not yet verbalize _what_ was different, his determination had grown ever more solid, a stark contrast of sorts to its housing within his vaporous form. He continued to lead his fellow phantasms along the seemingly endless walkway that had been made apparent by Gandalf, pausing their travel intermittently as he made ever-more fruitful attempts to touch Thranduil's fëa. While this was much the same as Gimli had done with Legolas - a mortal soul touching an immortal's - the mannish spirit's experience differed from the dwarrow's in one important respect. Bard was _convinced_ Thranduil had _seen_ him, and had not simply sensed the contact of a loved one's soul at the level of his fëa as Gimli believed Legolas might have. 

Then the King of Dale's success had suddenly waned as inexplicably as improvement had been wrought. The conduit to the Elvenking closed completely, as though Thranduil resisted him even more strongly than he'd done before Bard had sensed a change in circumstance. For a moment Bard pondered if he should push no further and cease his quest, wondering if Thranduil was communicating that he should stay forever away - but he had taken the dwarrows' tales of Thranduil's stubbornness to heart, and it simply served to fuel his own resolve. 

His pace along the path eventually outstripped that of his dwarven companions, his being filled with ever-increasing anxious anticipation that drove him further onward. It did not take him long to recognize he’d placed distance between them, and he turned toward them in surprise. Their respective forms were sufficiently far away that they had some difficulty distinguishing one another against their surround, the gray-tinged greenery of the corridor formed by tree and hedge so pervasive that the trio had long ceased to take notice of its strange pallor.

“Come,” Bard said as he beckoned his fellow phantasms to follow him, “I am certain that what calls to me is but a bit further down this path.”

“Hold, laddie!” Dáin said, his gradually building disquiet beginning to crystallize within the more central reaches of his soul. “We should go no further. I understand the pull upon you as you seek your beloved is an intense one – but the stone we find ourselves amidst is beginning to rattle me.”

“Aye, I would agree,” Gimli said with a frown, “I’ve not heard rock speak to us so strongly at any point in our journey – if at all. We would be best served to attempt to understand its meaning, for surely it cannot be a coincidence.”

Confusion tinged Bard’s vaporous form as he began to wonder if this journey had begun to take a strange toll on his companions – for their words about the verbiage of stone were unusual to the mannish soul that had yet to recover any substantial memory of his mortal life. “The rocks along this path are _speaking_ to you – as in talking with words?”

“Nay – not so clearly as that, laddie. Their energy has been different since you sensed the change with Thranduil – can you not feel it?” Dáin gestured at the scattered rocks that lay upon the ground in their immediate field of view, puzzled by the vibrations that seemed to be but an echo of a language he did not whatsoever understand.

Bard shook his head. “I do not understand that of which you speak – so, no.” He gestured yet again down the path. “What calls to me is further this way; I do not hear or sense anything in our immediate vicinity.”

“Even so, we’d be well served to understand its whispers before we proceed any further. Its language is too foreign to me, but it does not ring with pure joy, and there may be caution to be found therein.” Dáin began inspecting the stones that lay in his immediate vicinity, cursing to himself as he attempted to touch them – and failed, his hands merely moving through them as had been the case with every other solid object they'd encountered in their current state.

Bard sighed, for the first time on this quest finding himself quite irritated at the King under the Mountain. And yet he held within himself any further argument, for he knew not what to say, aside from _knowing_ that his moment was growing ever closer at hand – and he did not want to see it pass him by.

“Surely _this_ is not what the stone speaks of?” Dáin whispered as he squinted into the distance. “Aye, if they talk of some fell purpose our aid is then at hand! As surely as the Redwater runs deep, you’d have won that wager, my dear Gimli!”

“What wager, exactly?” the dwarrow asked in confusion.

“Gandalf – he returns to us just as you said he would, be it at the turn of the tide, so you might say, or not!”

Tendrils of relief emanating from the phantasms greeted the Maia as he strode onto the trio's pathway.

“My joy upon your return outweighs my irritation at your sodding, ill-timed departure,” Dáin said happily, his words causing the Maia to smile slightly. “Though as much as I appreciate a taste of your fabled comings and goings, I’d thought your time with us was through. Yet even an accomplished Wizard such as yourself must grow weary of the stodgy, stuffy elven kingdoms within these lands. You clearly missed us a wee bit too much and simply could not stay away, I gather? Mortals being far more interesting company and all that?”

The Maia’s warmth easily matched the phantasms’ own. “In all truth, I was in the vicinity, shall we say, and I thought I’d pay you a visit.”

“Would that I could be a most hospitable host and offer you the creature comforts I did back when you traveled to our mountains those many years ago, yet we’ve seem to run low on stock at the moment.” And then the King under the Mountain beckoned Gandalf to move even closer. “Surely this is not a simple social call – tell us what brings you forth.”

Untold centuries of amassed wisdom shone in Olórin’s eyes as he captured Bard’s gaze, the King of Dale floating nearby. “You have experienced cause to lose hope, and I am here to ensure that does not fully come to pass. For while I cannot directly guide you in your quest, I would not see you falter. May I say that there are forces at work that may sap your resilience – though certainly not on the part of your companions.”

Whether the Maia was caught unaware – or not – by Bard’s response, none of the spirits could say. “My hope had indeed begun to flag, yet _something_ changed – I know not what – and I finally have begun to witness progress. Not at this very moment, mind you, but I am certain perseverance will result in reward.”

“Good, good,” Olórin said, nodding softly as he pulled out his pipe.

“May I?” Gimli asked with a smile, knowing such sharing was so unlikely to succeed that it was impossible – yet as of now, _anything_ seemed to be a possibility, so long as their fortitude did not succumb to the meandering twists and turns of their task.

“You might,” Olórin replied, “yet I think your energies might be more fruitfully placed elsewhere – for what you seek is closer to you than you believe it to be.”

Bard peered around the former White Wizard, half-anticipating Thranduil to be standing stiffly behind him.

“Patience,” Olórin murmured, “is a virtue that serves one well.”

He paused for some moments before speaking once more. “As does faith.”

He straightened, glowing with both his inherent power and the fondness he felt for the trio before him. "Carry on," he said with a twinkle in his eye, and then departed from whence he came.

Dáin stood motionless at the edge of the path, fighting a strong impulse to follow the Maia's steps.

"You are wroth with him once more?" Bard asked as they watched the glowing form walk into the distance, soon enough moving beyond their line of sight.

"Nay," Dáin replied. "His alliance is with us." He turned, a mischievous grin playing upon his face. "Now I simply wonder what the bloody hell he's up to."

The King under the Mountain straightened, moving his hands as though he was dusting himself off. His gaze met Gimli's, and they shared a warm smile. "Well then, lads, back to it - as I've said before, this puzzle won't be solving itself." And with one final look at the horizon, he turned his attention back to the task at hand.


	19. Chapter 19

“The sounds of night have a wondrous tone here – yet they are so foreign,” the Elvenking murmured, his unease palpable as he listened to the soft vocals of Irmo’s Maiar wafting past, set as they were against the backdrop of the melody of nightingales that made their home within Lórien’s Gardens.

“Or perhaps you are simply out of practice in being one with the land’s song amidst the boughs of trees,” Legolas said with a smile. “It was certainly not an easy task to convince you to ascend these branches with me.”

“The strangeness of these gardens reverberates even more strongly here,” Thranduil said with a slight huff. “Surely you would admit that.”

“Indeed I would. Yet what makes it bothersome for you, my Lord, as you have said such before and I do not experience the same boding of ill? My heart is lighter here.” His words were indeed true, for the abundant tranquility of groves of silver willow and fragrant cedar had eased some portion of his festering disappointment at Aistë's words regarding the Olosondo. How could it be any different while he sat amidst the serenity of these gardens, the very ones in which Mithrandir himself had studied the giving of dreams and the granting of gifts of hope?

Now Legolas' predominant experience was one of a gradual swelling of anticipation as he thought upon Gimli’s next touching of his fëa - or vice versa - be it purely a dream or not, though he hoped the truth was the latter.

Thranduil studied the cedar leaves that he had been idly caressing with his fingers. “Perhaps it is more the case that the Valar’s stone of dreams calls to us more strongly here.”

Legolas grew solemn, studying the poppies below that glowed peacefully in the silvery darkness, shining as though they were lit by the starlight beaming down upon them. “Do you believe it is so? That the Olosondo solely crafted that which I’ve experienced? After all, you have said that you thought my reverie was simply a reflection of the wishes of my heart.”

Thranduil shrugged, an uncommon enough gesture that Legolas wondered exactly _how_ discomfited his Adar felt – and _why_ , for the explanation remained insufficient to his mind. “I know not. Should Mithrandir have clearly accepted Aistë's hypothesis, I would say yes. Yet he was surprisingly quiet about the matter, which speaks for itself. We must simply wait for Lord Irmo’s arrival, as he will have the answers you seek. Should he present himself to us, of course, for his reclusiveness is legendary. Perhaps he will simply consult with Olórin and Aistë, and they in turn will communicate the truth of the matter to us.”

Legolas nodded, aware deep within his heart that Thranduil continued to harbor doubt regarding his ever-brief meeting of Gimli's soul during reverie.

Yet while the Prince wished it were different, his King’s disbelief was no longer overly troublesome, for he knew there was little to be gained by trying to convince him of what he considered to be truth - nor need, for his manner of support now was valuable in its own way. And so Legolas did not speak of the explanation he'd derived in the interim, that the Olosondo had not simply painted the scenes of his heart's desire, but rather had facilitated Gimli’s contact of his fëa during reverie.

Legolas studied his King briefly, and then posed another question that had been lingering within his mind. “Forgive me if I overstep my bounds, my Lord, but I wonder what you have witnessed during your own rest to bring you to a place of such disquiet?”

Incredulity at the atypically bold question briefly flashed across the Elvenking’s face, followed by the swift placement of a purely neutral mask – but not before Legolas observed palpable sadness cross his Adar’s ageless face.

“Even if your dreams end up being just that – the work of this stone of the Valar – they are something to be treasured, for they bring you joy. Mine simply speak to me of mistakes I have made over the course of my life.”

“Yet in your study of them can you not garner wisdom?”

Thranduil smiled wanly, drawing some comfort from the cedar leaves he still held between his fingers. _Would such have been so when it may have made a difference. That time is long past._

Legolas studied his Adar’s face once more, wishing he understood that which brought reluctance and discord to the fore of his King’s current disposition. For a moment, he was struck by the manner in which his Adar seemed to wage a battle of sorts that he had no hope of understanding – or assisting.

Yet was that entirely accurate - that there was indeed no manner of aid that he might provide?

The Prince spoke his next words carefully, uncertain how they might be received. “There was many a time when I was but an elfling that you or Naneth would share reverie with me – will you not allow me to do so now, to walk by your side and share in your regret, so that I might help you resolve that which is amiss within?”

Thranduil felt his heart skip a beat at the suggestion – surely he had no desire for Legolas to learn of _whom_ it was that his dreams centered upon. And at the same time, a vision of _resolution_ filled his mind – one that seemed to be a lifeline to the cold frost that surrounded his heart.

“Or,” Legolas continued, his own heart sinking as he considered his next words, for he truly hoped what he would vocalize next bore no remote resemblance to the world of actualities, “if your reverie is troublesome in a manner similar to Lady Celebrían’s – perhaps you might use Irmo’s stones to erase those that are most tiresome for you?”

Thranduil's response was swift, for he had no desire for his son to harbor such misconceptions. "No, no, no - that which fills my thoughts during reverie bears no similarity whatsoever to those unspeakable horrors."  And as he spoke the melancholy that had gripped his heart for so long dissipated slightly, as though realization of the truth made some portions of it flee: _Never_  would he want to lose memories of one he held most dear, even if such recollections brought an accompanying ache that might never ease over the course of his eternal life.

The pair then sat in a reassuring silence, each drawing calm from the glittering silver night that surrounded them.

Eventually Legolas announced he would retire, Thranduil taking little but passing notice of his departure, absorbed in his thoughts as he was.

So absorbed he did not realize when he passed into reverie, lulled in spite of his internal declarations to avoid the very same, for the allure of rest in the land of dreams proved too overwhelming to resist.


	20. Chapter 20

The Elvenking paused in the midst of Irmo’s gardens, and it seemed to him that his fëa had been walking the intricate maze of Lórien’s greenery while his hröa rested comfortably in the beech tree that had lulled him to sleep. The noises around him were strangely changed, no longer the song of Irmo’s Maiar mixed with the melody of nightingales, but now a more integral song of the world itself.

In his hand he held a stone - the Olosondo, he knew - yet how it came to be there, he could not say, for he had been walking for what seemed to be both a short while and an eternity - and he had not noticed it until this moment.

Part of him wanted the stone to disappear once more – never to be seen again, for he had no desire to fall prey to illusions. This desire battled with a larger one, one that was both more vague and more base – a pull to follow a flitting form that seemed ever outside of his reach in the distant horizon, a form that seemed to move both towards him and away at the same time.

Recognition of the glowing figure – no, _spirit_ – tarried around the edges of his awareness.

 _Mithrandir!_ he called, even though he did not sense the form was the Maia’s and, as such, was not surprised when there was no reply.

He looked at the stone yet again, knowing that further pursuit of that which pulled him was something he both dreaded and desired.

The brushing of his fëa with his son’s startled him from his contemplation of the stone of dreams, Legolas bearing the headstrong expression that accompanied him in battles long past, his features discernible even in his currently ephemeral form.

Yet still the figure flitted in the distance – and Thranduil nodded once, drawing upon his son’s confidence to move towards it once more.

Perhaps the particulars mattered not – for both dreams sent by Irmo and the work of the Olosondo had one and the same purpose – to fulfill the desires of the heart within reverie, and as such bring solace to one's fëa.

Or perhaps the particulars _did_ matter, for Thranduil was not left entirely open of mind nor will as his awareness grew of the glowing form moving along a distant pathway surrounded by tall trees.

The Olosondo vibrated in the portion of his fëa that was his hand, and he wondered if the image before him was yet another projection from his weary heart - or was it _real_? Yet surely the one who appeared in the distance, during the sleep of elves, in _Irmo's lands_ , could only be a blessing provided by the Vala himself?

 _Bard_.

“Gimli! He's here, in Lórien! Of course!” Legolas said. “Come!”

His son’s exuberance snapped the Elvenking firmly back to reality. “This is but a dream, Legolas!”

Yet his caution was not acknowledged, the Prince sprinting away faster than Thranduil had ever seen him run.

****

 _Gimli,_ Legolas thought, his fëa brightening with anticipation as he sensed the dwarf standing along a path bordered by both hedges and trees. _Surely this is real, Lady Elbereth,_ he prayed - and even if not, a dream that held promise of seeing Gimli once more in this lifetime was not such a disappointing outcome, should that be the message Lord Irmo wished to convey.

And then his focused attention was led astray. To the side he could sense the unmistakable pull of one bonded soul to another. It was something he had never so clearly observed before, for in the waking world said bonds were much more covertly held. He turned, shocked to witness his King’s fëa brightening suddenly, far exceeding the glow sent forth by his own fëa, another soul in the distance brightening in turn.

Legolas had never before seen such an intense, blinding white light, not on these shores nor on those of Middle Earth. Yet before he could make sense of the tableau before him – his Adar, bonded to another, his fëa linked with one who was not his Queen – the light flickered, Thranduil beginning to draw away, his desire to flee at least partly driven by belief that what lay before him was unreal. 

“Stop!” Legolas yelled at the Elvenking, and then turned back towards the path, so thrown off balance that he no longer knew if he remained in reverie or walked in the world of the here-and-now with the compete and full awareness of his hröa.

****

“A staring contest, is it then?” Dáin spoke in hushed tones to his spectral companions, gathered as they were on the edge of the pathway amidst a smattering of stones whose speech had grown even more pressing.

The comment broke Bard’s unceasing gaze at Thranduil, and the King of Dale briefly turned to look at Dáin, Legolas’ blazing eyes following his, yet he still did not seem to see Gimli standing nearby.

“Hmph! How could I have forgotten how your elf is such a fiery one,” Dáin said, and Gimli turned to glare at him, stopping when he realized he had misinterpreted Dáin’s tone and words, for there was no mocking in his expression – but rather a grudging respect.

“Who are you?” Legolas asked Bard, seeing only the glow of the mannish soul before him and not those of the dwarves, for the white light remained blinding and all-encompassing even as it had dimmed somewhat. “And for what purpose do you seek my father?”

Yet they could not understand one another, the language of mortal spirits being somewhat different than that of immortal fëa - and even if that were not the case, Bard's focus would not be torn for even a moment from Thranduil.

"Fuck, lad!" Dáin's voice cut through Bard's paralysis. "What the hell are you waiting for? Go after him! I'm not bloody well going to stand by and watch the two of you play some ridiculous game of cat and mouse!"

Then the King under the Mountain tried to pull Bard from the path to move toward Thranduil, forgetting his hands would simply pass through his mannish counterpart.

Yet more importantly, he found he could not step beyond the border of hedges and away from the path. "Gandalf!" he bellowed, even as he wondered if the Maia would - or could - answer.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting - I injured my hand/fingers... will probably take a bit of time until I'm able to post the rest....

_It cannot be._ Disbelief sped through Thranduil's fëa even more quickly than he backed away from the glowing form on the tree-lined path.

He did not stop until Bard was once more a mere flicker in the distance, even as he knew the now-intense pull of their tenuous bond had not dimmed from his quick retreat.

The Elvenking was not one to flee – but _this_ , _this_ he did not know if he could tolerate, this viewing of his deepest desire that would surely only serve to lay bare the wounds of his soul.

In this, he did not - had never had, in truth - the courage to risk repairing that which had been broken. In this, he would term himself a coward.

It was both breathtaking and astoundingly unreal - one matter for Legolas to say he felt the brief touching of Gimli’s soul during reverie, another entirely for the Elvenking to _look upon_ Bard’s spirit in his waking dream, their long-ago binding of souls not wholly severed. The tattered remnants of their bond tugged at Thranduil's own fëa, filling him with a relentless drive to reunite fëa-to-soul with the Bowman.

Yet it was not solely unbearable yearning that passed through him, caught as he was between feelings he had rarely experienced with such unbearable intensity since learning of Bard’s passing – ire, remorse, guilt...

Longing, love....

Thranduil had never questioned his own sanity before, yet he did now, for he knew of the folly inherent in interpreting any and all of Irmo's dreams literally.  Olosondo or not, dreams were often the crafting of the heart’s deepest desire, a means to lift one's spirit.  Surely the King of Dale’s presence in his waking dream was simply the wish of his worn heart, echoing and reverberating through a stone of dreams - or even a well-intentioned, if undesired balm from Irmo himself.

But – _what if_ …

He knew folly had captured him - he was his son's father, after all - for how else to explain this tasting of a bittersweet draught of _hope_ that Bard sought him? As a spirit, no less - something he knew to be impossible.

 _Thranduil, you are finally losing your mind_ , for the first time in many long years addressing himself in the third person. He tried – in vain – to rid himself of irrational wishes and hopes, knowing full well that the only reality to be had here was to be found back in the tree that had lulled him to slumber.

 _Perhaps the loss of your mind is not such an ill thing, at least in this case,_ came a warm, firm notion – and Thranduil turned to trace the words to their source.

 _Mithrandir_ , he responded, his fëa moving as a moth towards light to stand beside the Maia’s true, glorious form. Thranduil had never witnessed him as such, and for a moment he was overcome by sheer awe.

Awe that quickly faded with the former Wizard’s next words. _So much in this world - and the next - is finite. As is this. You do not face an unlimited number of opportunities to make right that which went wrong._

 _Yet this is but a dream!_ Thranduil replied, unbelieving of Olórin’s ease of acceptance of the matter at hand. _Where is the easing of my fëa in this?_

_Is there truly harm in it? Choose, and choose wisely, son of Oropher, for soon enough your choice cannot be undone - not within this cycle of Eru Illuvatar's Song._

And then Olórin was gone, leaving Thranduil clenching the Olosondo so firmly that the stone seemed to cut into the part of his fëa that was his hand. Yet he noticed it not as he pondered whether the Maia had truly been present, or was simply another figment of his overactive imagination.

****

As he watched the scene play before him, Gimli's yearning near-exceeded the pull of the bond that linked Bard and Thranduil.  He yearned for that which was so clearly held between the pair - that which he did not have.

That which he would never have with Thranduil's son, his opportunity to seriously entertain such fancies lost long ago.

This was not the first time he’d viewed this elf during this journey – _his dear elf_ , a wish and a want that thrummed through the core of his soul. Yet this was also _different_ , for now it seemed as though Legolas’ very soul stood before Bard, as freed of the constraints of bodily form as the trio of spirits were.

It was no surprise, not truly, that Gimli knew with certainty that Legolas’ fëa was more wondrous, more cherished than any other. Perhaps his own soul had known this from their first meeting, even if his mind – indeed, every bone in his body – had resisted the possibility with full strength and will.

“Gandalf!” Dáin roared once more, shaking the son of Glóin from his strange paralysis.

“Legolas!” Gimli shouted in turn, moving towards the edge of the path. Yet his frustration mirrored Dáin’s own, for he could not move past the barrier of hedge and tree. And even if he had, it seemed it would not matter, for Legolas seemed to notice him not. As was the case in all their encounters thus far, Legolas stood in his full field of view, entirely out of reach.

Perhaps not entirely out of reach.

It had quickly become apparent that the elf could clearly see Bard, even as he did not seem to take note of the dear friend with whom who’d traversed the Sundering Sea.

 _Why?_ Gimli could not help but wonder, even as he knew that this question needed to be pushed to the periphery, else he ignore the very task for which they'd set forth on this journey.

“Bard!” Gimli yelled, “Speak to Legolas, for surely he sees you! Tell him of what we seek - even by gestures if he hears you not!”

“I'm trying!” The volume of Bard's voice matched the dwarrow spirit's, his tone reflecting his own growing desperation and dismay. Far past the Prince stood the Elvenking, the latter all he truly wanted – yet wanting was not enough. The bright white emanating from his soul shifted to a melancholy spectrum of colors as a realization was borne through what he sensed in their bond - or more correctly, could _not_ sense.

He could not – would not – continue to seek that which Thranduil clearly did not wish to have.

“Perhaps I wreak more harm for the one I love than anything else, reminding him of what was lost and will never be,” he said softly, his demeanor strangely dejected – a fact that yet again puzzled Dáin and Gimli both, for the King of Dale was nothing if not persistent, consumed with a prudent optimism and strong heart that his dwarven counterparts had relished during life. Yet Bard now sensed Thranduil’s reluctance far more fully than he had before – including the fear surrounding his heart that drove him to move onward with no acknowledgement of the past.

“You, dear Bard, are a fighter, not a wallower,” Dáin’s voice breaking through the rebuilt wall of his resignation and despair. “I will not see you wither, even if you have taken a liking to imitating the Elvenking's mercurial moods. And I, for one, did not come this bloody far to give up now.”

For a moment, Bard experienced a brief flash of vague memory, that of a fierce dwarven warrior unmatched in mettle. And then he smiled, struck by a notion that neither of them was a stranger to seeking success against impossible odds.

“Should I cease this journey , it does not mean I give up – simply that I see reality for what it is,” Bard said, acceptance of what was and would never be settling within. The light that flared forth from his soul still did not dim, but merely shifted from tones of resignation and loss to a burgeoning wave of peace - perhaps not the resolution he had initially sought, but a peace nonetheless.

Dáin was not fooled, and he looked at the human soul before him with keen curiosity, perplexed by this transformation. "Do you not recall what Gandalf said? That there are forces that would work to undermine what you seek?"

“Said forces being Thranduil himself? He clearly shuns my presence - this is simply one example of many, though surely this is the most direct. He makes it quite clear that he does not want to reawaken the past, does he not? That, combined with the return of his Queen, leads me to one conclusion: I simply interfere by being here.”

Yet the firesome Lord of the Iron Hills and King Under the Mountain most certainly did not concur.

“You’ve wounded the Elvenking’s heart in some manner that you recall not, and I'd bet the entire wealth of my kingdom that he matched your hurt in turn, yet you desire to scurry away when your own heart is wounded by his rejection? After spending so long waiting for this bloody moment? This is not the Bard I knew in life! What of ensuring that he is well and whole? Durin's hammer, if _that's_ well and whole -" and he pointed toward the Elvenking, "then _I'm_ a warg!"

Dáin stared down the mannish form before him, yet it was Gimli who broke the ensuing silence, even as he gazed at Legolas. “Can you truly state that all is well and good if you cease your journey now?”

The dwarrows’ words seemed to temper Bard's response to the glacial chill and spurned fire emanating from Thranduil. Even if it was primarily driven by their prodding, he once more sent _apology_ -and the entirety of his love for the Elvenking - through their bond.

None was more shocked than Bard when Thranduil did not resist him, the Elvenking suddenly flying towards him faster than the mortal spirits could even perceive, moving so quickly that the dwarrows - and Legolas, still focused upon his Adar and the mortal spirit to which he had bound - feared a spectacular collision.

And a collision it was, Thranduil effortlessly passing through the barrier of tree and hedge that the mortal spirits - and Legolas - could not cross, though their contact was as strangely gentle as it was blinding.

The speech of the stones scattered around the path near-overpowered the dwarven spirits.

A speech that trickled into murmurs following a flash of light that engulfed the sundered pair as their souls joined.

And then, just as suddenly, Bard and Thranduil vanished.


	22. Chapter 22

He awoke slowly, his mood both languid and refreshed, relishing the ever-strange fabric of the sheets that covered him, the scent of forest and earth filling his senses.

How strange that it was so bright within what should be a dim cavern.

Well, if he was honest with himself, the light was not generated by the cave itself.

“It is true then, that you never sleep?” Bard said with a fond smile, watching as Thranduil turned his head slowly from where he stood on the opposite side of his bedchamber, hair sweeping over his shoulders as his eyes met Bard's own.

It was only he who saw the stoic elf as such, Bard knew – and he also knew he would never tire of it, these glimpses of happiness and contentment underneath his legendarily stern façade.

“You know full well that I most certainly rest,” Thranduil said affectionately, “have you truly not seen it?”

“If I were to wake before you I am not certain I would have the patience to simply gaze at you,” and he held out his hand in invitation.

Something nudged the periphery of the Elvenking's awareness, yet he could not grasp its threads. Perhaps it was simply his reluctance to discuss that which must be said, glorious as these initial days of their entirely unexpected union had been in the distant aftermath of the Battle of Five Armies.

“What is it?” Bard asked as the elf’s demeanor changed, Thranduil's expression becoming one he used in his court as he again sensed that _something_ was amiss.

“As I have said before, there are important issues we must discuss.” Thranduil rooted himself in place, surprising himself at his ability to resist - even if only for a moment - the one who had made his heart sing once more.

“It most certainly can wait, can it not?” Bard finally sat up, sheets falling from his skin as though they were water, having no desire to focus on practicalities just yet.

 _Later, then_ , Thranduil vowed to himself. _Later._


	23. Chapter 23

Dáin stood alongside Gimli, the pair of the dwarrow spirits without words after what they had witnessed - the blinding union and subsequent disappearance of Bard and Thranduil, closely followed by Legolas' own vanishing.

"Has he achieved that which he wished for?" Gimli eventually asked, his words sounding the same as if they had been choked out, drifting into the world that surrounded them much as his thoughts drifted to the one - his One - who'd departed without warning or words.

"Durin's hammer, I've no idea. I bloody well hope so, for I doubt we can follow his path to assist him any further." Dáin's eyes narrowed as he studied his long-time comrade. "What now, then?"

His King's question made Gimli's entire being sag ever so slightly, unable as he was to fully bury his state of confusion and melancholy - and this did not escape said King's attention. 

"If Bard's journey is complete - in so far as we are involved in guiding him - I would propose that we will be soon recalled to our Maker's mansions," Gimli whispered, ruing that which may have slipped forever through his grasp. _He was not - is not - mine,_ he reminded himself firmly.

"Hmph. I, for one, am doing no such thing until you straighten your own matters out."

Gimli turned slowly, preparing yet another denial. Yet he hesitated, for as his gaze met Dáin's he recognized what said denial entailed, namely the carving of a more firm path of no return away from that which he truly desired - even out of reach as it was.

He knew not what to say, rarely sensing a lack of options as he did now.

“Durin's balls, it need not be as complicated as you make it to be." Dáin slowly shook his head, wondering for some moments if the pathway was affecting Gimli's resolve as it had Bard's - or not, for the dwarrow seemed as determined as ever to keep the secrets of his heart just that, even as the truth had already been made clear.

"Nay, perhaps it is even far more complicated."

"Mahal as my witness, you know well as I that there is no second chance after we return to our stone halls. You _yearn_ for him -" and the King under the Mountain lifted a ghostly hand to silence Gimli's forthcoming words, "nay, deny it not! Fuck, laddie - when have _you_ been one to deny that which is the truth?”

“I’m not in denial!” Gimli replied, just as sternly, his frustration stronger than his King’s. “The choice was made, and it must be stood by, for there is no going back!”

Dáin narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Can you tell me right now, an oath on your beard to our Maker, that you know with certainty Legolas did not - nay, does not - care for you as One?”

“I don’t _have_ a beard!” Gimli yelled. “I'm a _spirit_. A _ghost_. As I've said before, surely Legolas deserves more than a _ghost!_ ”

He spun around in a circle, filled with indecision and doubt that he shoved to the side. “What would you have me do? Stay here on this forsaken path? Or if someday the barrier that locks us here is removed and weariness has not overcome me, wander houseless in Valinor, unwilling to leave the world and unable to inhabit it, haunting trees or springs or hidden places that I once knew? Of what _use_ is that to Legolas?”

“Well then,” Dáin spat as his exasperation mounted and threatened to erupt. “Do I need to take this into my own hands then?”

“And how would you propose to do that, exactly?” Gimli asked, confused more than ever about potential courses of action - and the will of his own heart.

“Laddie – I’ve no bloody idea. _Yet._ ” He glowed with fury in the gray light around them. "But the better question is - are you with me? Or will you flee?"

"I've _never_ been one to flee - and I'll not begin now." In that moment, Gimli more fully understood Bard's own strange acceptance of Thranduil's rejection. "I simply see reality for what it is - truly, for I share no history with Legolas that matches what Bard had with Thranduil.

"You're not the first, laddie, to love a dear friend as One - and you wouldn't be the first to be wrong about whether it's requited. And before you sputter about the sundering of elves and dwarves, how will you know if you don't _try?_ What of your faithfulness? Mahal as my witness, I'd sooner relive any and all ills of my life than return to our Maker's mansions without an answer - and you know full well that I have no misbegotten desire to spend eternity away from my One."

"Answer to...?"

"Stop the charades, laddie.  Whether Legolas loves you back, of course."

Before hope could flutter to its full extent, Dáin briskly took charge as he was struck by an idea - the only suggestion he was able to generate. "I bloody well agree that we have little time until Mahal seeks us, given Bard's finding of his love. Come, given that we have only the stones here as possible guides, we must study them in earnest."

He was doubtful they would find an answer in the rocks themselves, yet he did not mention this, for his doubt was overriden by his knowledge that he had succeeded in the face of far worse odds in the past.

And they had Tharkûn on their side - surely that was a matter of not-small import.

****

“My lord?”

When there was still no sign of his King awakening, Legolas touched Thranduil’s shoulder in a decidedly more forceful manner - yet Thranduil did not stir. He sat exactly as he had when he’d been lulled to slumber in the beech tree, found by Legolas after the Prince had been suddenly, unwillingly jolted from their shared reverie.

The dreamscape brought with it more questions than answers, and upon his sudden, undesired leaving of the planes of reverie, Legolas had wasted no time in seeking the Elvenking.

Not finding his King in his rooms within Irmo’s mansion, Legolas backtracked to the beech tree, the very same he’d climbed with Thranduil before retiring to his own guest chamber.

When Thranduil would still not awaken, Legolas quelled his questions regarding Gimli as concern for his Adar blossomed.

_Had Lord Irmo placed him under some sort of spell - an enchantment of sleep or dreams?_

It was something the Elvenking would surely not desire, this deep, near-unnatural rest.

Perhaps if he attempted to awaken him with a gentle touching of his fëa….

Inhaling deeply, Legolas closed his eyes and focused on the bond he shared with his Adar – his eyes flashing wide open when he could not make immediate contact with the Elvenking’s soul. Another strangeness of these gardens, he thought as he shook his head, and then he focused more fully, forcing himself to empty his mind and seek his Adar’s fëa more slowly and thoroughly.

It was not to be found. In its place were mere whispers of far away places, of grayness and elemental song. All served to remind him of their shared reverie.

_Perhaps it had indeed been real - fëar separating from hröar and walking Irmo's gardens...._

Legolas sighed, more certain than before that this was not what his King would have chosen. Any elf could recite tales of fëar walking Irmo’s Gardens – and he knew equally well that his Adar would never wish to be so freed from the constraints of his hröa.

The Elvenking closely guarded his inner-most thoughts and feelings, the secrets held within his soul, and now Legolas had more of an inkling as to why.

 _Bound to a mortal!_ The Prince would have been filled with resentment at the sight, at the hypocrisy inherent in his King’s denial of his beseeching for Tauriel’s hand so long ago whilst he himself had been bound to one who was certainly not Sindar - but so much had changed for all of them that it now mattered not.

And his King had been correct in knowing his son's heart, perhaps, for Tauriel was not the One he wished to eternally bind himself.

Had their dream been real? Had their souls indeed wandered a path in Irmo’s Gardens, finding a mortal soul upon a tree-lined path? Had his sensing of brief contact with Gimli’s soul meant that his dear friend walked there also? He’d not questioned Gimli's presence when he’d first arrived at his King’s side...

Now, he was entirely uncertain.

Had he been mistaken, his wants coloring that which had actually occurred?

“Your concern for your Adar is admirable – as firmly buttressed as his own protection of his heart. Though whether the latter has inherent wisdom remains to be seen.” Words lilted from the garden floor, barely perceptible above the ever-present intermingling of the Maiar's song and hum of nightingales.

“Aistė,” Legolas said when he recognized the voice’s owner, bowing his head deferentially. “You return,” he said somewhat warily, this strange situation leading him to be as uncertain of her motives as his King had been.

“We are of like minds, he and I,” she said with a peaceful smile, and then her gentle gaze became focused, almost stern.

“In what manner?” Legolas asked, a furrow between his brows, his distrust easily evident to the Maia.

“I have ever been a realist amongst those who dwell here – pragmatism has its place beside optimism, does it not? Doubt standing alongside unyielding belief?”

Legolas nodded, yet his frown did not dissipate.

“I still know not the purpose of the stone King Thranduil holds,“ and Legolas was puzzled when he saw that her words were true, that his Adar was indeed holding the Olosondo. The question of how it came to be there was quickly displaced by a query far more important.

“Yet you said it was malfunctioning. Is that how why he does not stir, caught in an unnatural state of slumber, his fëa trapped elsewhere in these gardens?”

She shook her head as she continued to gaze upward at the Prince from the garden floor. “I would not say he is trapped, dear one – simply that he undertakes his own journey. You can be certain he does so of his own free will. While Lord Irmo has not yet proffered an audience, Lady Estë has assured me that the stone bears no ill intent. It would seem that the Olosondo assists him in that which he desires to mend. His fëa wanders our gardens, his hröa awaiting its return after the deep wounds of his soul are healed. I would deem this a grace that the Lord and Lady have granted him, for he holds much heartache within.”

“And so it was real," he said simply, and the Maia glanced at him questioningly, for she sensed that Legolas had traversed the planes of reverie with his King, yet did not desire to intrude within his mind to learn the specifics thereof. 

"I witnessed his fëa uniting with a mortal soul," he explained, and in response to her questioning, near-disbelieving expression, elaborated further. "I am _certain_ this mortal spirit stood before me, was trying to communicate with me, though I did not comprehend what was being said....”

She frowned, not expecting such words, yet the entirety of her pity was clear. “Perhaps you viewed the wishes of his heart, the playing of memories held within his fëa – there are no fairë wandering Aman. Even as your fëa wandered with his, whatever you encountered most certainly must be a tableau brought forth by Lord Irmo's hand. No wonder your King needs such a balm, then, for to bond with a mortal….” Her words trailed off as she gazed into the distance, her musical tones blending with the ever-present music that drifted past. 

“The wishes of his heart...It is most ironic that is what my Lord King told me when I dreamt of Gimli.” He spoke in a near-unbelieving manner – and then his characteristic defiance came to the fore. “I still believe that I touched Gimli's soul – or he mine.”

Aistė smiled ever so slightly, continuing to study the gardens beyond as though she drew her own strength and solace from sparkling blooms and silver-tinged greenery. “If there is a lesson to be had here, perhaps it is that we cannot hope to understand the Valar’s greater purpose, nor should we automatically doubt the veracity of experience as I did yours when we first met. Perhaps Lord Gimli acted in some manner as your guide, to bring your King to this very place where his heart could finally be healed. For clearly King Thranduil would not have come here otherwise, if it were not for you."

It was a bittersweet realization – one that spoke to Legolas' sense of reason and the winding pathway of his own explanations. “Gimli did grow to care deeply for him, and my King cared equally deeply for him in turn. And yes, I would consider Gimli's guidance to be without peer.”

His heart both sank and swelled as he considered the entirety of Gimli's purpose as being the healing of his Adar's heart. Surely it would be of no surprise, being as generous in death as he was in life. And he knew his dear friend would never desire to see him hurt - yet how could it not be unwittingly so, given this stark reminder that he’d never shared with Gimli that which his Adar had with another – nor would he.

Her gaze met his as she turned from her study of glittering poppies and other floral wonders. “Do not forget the remaking of the world. While your separation seems cruel, it is part of Eru’s mandate, and surely there is a greater purpose in it, one we cannot hope to fully understand. I am certain that your devotion to Lord Gimli will be rewarded in the end.”

Her words were meant to instill hope, this Legolas knew - yet the embers of fortitude did not ignite within. His next words battled against his pride - but he knew she could read his heart, so he saw no need to hide. "Would that be a comfort to me - yet my heart is as desolate as the path on which I saw my King unite with another."

"Path?" she asked. "As in one within our Lord and Lady's maze of gardens?"

He shook his head. "One lined with hedge and tree beyond a maze..." and then his eyes glowed with renewed want and hope. "Will you assist me in locating the pathway, such that I may be certain that Gimli cannot be found within?"

"Would there be a soul present that you had viewed, it would not be constrained to a particular place, pathway or not - all are free to wander these gardens at will." Yet before his disappointment could flare, she concurred. "I will try to help you, but please understand I do not believe we will find the one you seek, for he is housed for eternity in Lord Aulë's halls."

"And should I not find him, at least I will have tried. And regardless, the trees will have memory of him had he been there, even if he is there no longer."

"Indeed," she said with a smile, and then beckoned him to sit at her side. "Tell me more of this path, so that we might try to locate it - assuming it exists in these gardens, and not within King Thranduil's memories. I must also caution that I know nothing of the import of not bearing an Olosondo - it would not seem to be a trivial matter."

Yet to Legolas her cautions were no strong deterrent to his renewing vigor. And so he spoke of the path, peace and hope kindling within once more as the scents and sounds of Lórien drifted past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairë (Quenya) = phantom, disembodied spirit
> 
> ****
> 
> Gimli's "houseless" sentence taken from Tolkien's writing


	24. Chapter 24

He awoke slowly, his mood both languid and refreshed, relishing the ever-strange fabric of the sheets that covered him, the scent of forest and earth filling his senses.

How strange that it was so bright within what should be a dim cavern.

Well, if he was honest with himself, the light was not generated by the cave itself.

“It is true then, that you never sleep?” Bard said with a fond smile, watching as Thranduil turned his head slowly from where he stood on the opposite side of his bedchamber, hair sweeping over his shoulders as his eyes met Bard's own.

It was only he who saw the stoic elf as such, Bard knew – and he also knew he would never tire of it, these glimpses of happiness and contentment underneath his legendarily stern façade.

“You know full well that I most certainly rest,” Thranduil said affectionately, “have you truly not seen it?”

“If I were to wake before you I am not certain I would have the patience to simply gaze at you,” and he held out his hand in invitation.

Something nudged the periphery of the Elvenking's awareness – a sense that he spun in circles, doubt and unease playing across his fair features.

“What is it?” Bard asked as subtle signs of distress percolated in the background of the elf’s demeanor.

“I – I fear this is not – “

“Not what?” Bard whispered softly before Thranduil could grasp thoughts that were yet out of reach. “Do not worry – I shall never willingly relinguish your hold upon my heart.” He smiled widely. “Even should I fall today, I would await you until the remaking of the world.”

Thranduil tilted his head, studying the King of Dale intently.

“Do you still doubt me?” Bard asked fondly, “or the wisdom of our union?”

Thranduil shook his head slowly, moving forward to touch Bard, closing his eyes in relief when his hand made contact with the firmness of Bard’s own.

“”Tis as though you fear I would break,” Bard whispered, placing a gentle kiss upon Thranduil’s brow.

“No,” Thranduil replied softly, “simply that I am relieved you are truly here.”

Bard pulled him close, his only thought to prove precisely how real he was.

****

Dáin and Gimli floated on the hedge-lined path, contemplating their next course of action. It was a task that remained difficult in light of their continued lack of true understanding of all that had passed thus far.

In truth, they were perhaps more stymied that their renewed efforts had come to naught, unable as they were to decipher anything of meaning from the whispers of the stones around them - or to reach Legolas once more.

"It makes bloody little sense that you haven't been able to perceive Legolas since he appeared and then disappeared before our very eyes."

“Perhaps he was drawn away with Thranduil and Bard - traveling to whatever their destination might be." Gimli attempted to quell the jealousy that arose with his next thought - and failed. "And it may be that Bard now walks amongst them in the Undying Lands, reimbodied as an immortal."

Dáin shook his ephemeral head, laughing at the idea. "Nay, even if that is the Valar's plan - which I somehow doubt, given how they seem to fancy leaving similar lovestruck folk torn asunder for eternity - surely not enough time has passed for such a thing. Perhaps they were simply transported elsewhere via some sort of spell."

Gimli raised a ghostly eyebrow in response, yet said nothing.

The King under the Mountain easily recognized the hurt that emanated from his fellow phantasm - and with similar ease traced the source to his words. "I am sorry, laddie," he said apologetically, "Mahal only knows that at times my foul mouth opens before my poor brain starts to think. There _are_ those who have succeeded in staying at one another's side -" his grin widening as he pondered legendary tales, "and surely the solution lay within their determination and faith, no?"

"Not all with faith succeed in such," Gimli stated matter-of-factly, "yet I would agree faith itself is no ill end."

“So this old dwarf will bloody well strive not to shake yours. Now, I know you have no recognition of this path on which we stand, this walkway that we cannot leave,” Dáin said, “yet we saw the very souls of those elves, so they traveled here _somehow_ \- _surely_ there is a way we can travel to them in turn."

"Yet you yourself said when it first occurred that Bard and Thranduil went where we cannot be likely to follow. Unless -" Gimli began, struggling to explain that which had troubled him since the events those days - or weeks - ago. “While every elf I encountered on these shores glowed brightly, what we witnessed -” and the dwarrow spirit paused for a moment, as he surely had no wish to voice that which he would say next, “it seemed as though their bodies had been left behind.”

“And?" Dáin asked somewhat unnecessarily, the percolating distress weaving through Gimli's vaporous form leading the King under the Mountain to the answer before it was whispered.

“Perhaps we wander some shared space of Mandos and Mahal, even as it has seemed we had stepped outside those very halls?” Gimli thought the idea was strange, untoward even, but surely this journey had been strange beyond measure?

“That could be one reason the stones around us speak so strongly of gray spaces,” Dáin said carefully, a small part of him cursing the lack of information that had hounded them throughout this journey. "Yet if Legolas was but a spirit himself, surely you would have sensed it? Would at least Bard have been aware of it with Thranduil?"

"I know not - Arwen certainly did with Aragorn, yet she had strong elven heritage and was still living at the time." Soon his frame slumped in relief as he recalled the mandate assigned to him. "Mahal would not deceive us - he clearly stated Thranduil yet lived.” And then he frowned, his ghostly brow creasing tightly. "At least I think it was so - I cannot remember."

“It matters not - we witnessed the Elvenking in bodily form many a time since beginning this journey.” Dáin attempted to push his own doubts and retorts to the side. “This puzzle has a different answer than the holding of those elves within the Halls.”

He turned back to the path, his keen gaze searching the grayness that was the constant of their surroundings. “Our study of these stones has thus far provided nothing of use, but Bard clearly desired to journey in this direction. What say you? Here we only seem to gawk at what surrounds us – let’s see what awaits us further down, and you shall keep trying to make contact with Legolas as you had before.”

And so they began to travel as Bard had wished before his vanishing, the subtle increase in the oft-unintelligible speech of the ever-present smattering of stones not escaping their notice as they passed by.

****

Aistë waited patiently for Legolas’ reverie to lift, studying the Prince as he moved from the world of waking dreams to awakening.

It had been yet another unsuccessful attempt, the Maia unable to guide Legolas to the pathway he sought. Nor had she yet been successful in guiding his in touching the soul of the dwarf that he so cared for - whether the contact occurred in dreamt desire or in truth, perhaps it mattered not.

“It is strange,” he said as he awakened more fully, “that I’d felt him so easily before – at least it seems it was easily, for now I do not sense him at all.”

“I must admit it is strange to me as well, for Lord Irmo tends to weave his dreams in subtle ways, and your feeling such contact is by no means subtle.”

Legolas smiled. “You do not know Gimli – his ways are not so, not when he wants a message to be conveyed."

He fell silent then, reflecting upon his words, and Aistë sensed the source of his disquiet. “Forgive me for being forward, but it is said he bore great love for the Lady Galadriel – and I sense your own great love for him.”

He took a deep breath, relieved that she understood. "Yes, and I treasure each moment I have spent at his side - including these brief glimpses in reverie." He settled more comfortably in his wide chair, idly stroking its deftly woven willow branches, admiring the veins of silver that glimmered in the early morning light. "It appears to be my lot in life that my love is not returned, yet I desire to find him no less for it, for I accepted what was - what is - long ago."

The latter was not entirely true, and Legolas somehow knew it was no large secret to the Maia. And so he appreciated her gentle acceptance all the more.

She handed him a pearl goblet filled with a gently fragrant liquid, one that he accepted with a graceful nod. “When Olórin returns, perhaps we shall have more success in finding that which you seek.”

The Prince sighed. "I cannot tarry here much longer - my King shows no sign of stirring, and my continued absence will not be welcomed."

 _Perhaps one more attempt, then_ , her voice echoing in his mind as she raised her goblet towards him, smiling at the flash of fiery determination she saw in his eyes, saddened by the flashes of doubt that lingered beneath.


	25. Chapter 25

He awoke slowly, his mood both languid and refreshed, relishing the ever-strange fabric of the sheets that covered him, the scent of forest and earth filling his senses.

How strange that it was so bright within what should be a dim cavern.

Well, if he was honest with himself, the light was not generated by the cave itself.

“It is true then, that you never sleep?” Bard said with a fond smile, watching as Thranduil turned his head slowly from where he stood on the opposite side of his bedchamber, hair sweeping over his shoulders as his eyes met Bard's own.

It was only he who saw the stoic elf as such, Bard knew – and he also knew he would never tire of it, these glimpses of happiness and contentment underneath his legendarily stern façade.

“You know full well that I most certainly rest,” Thranduil said affectionately, “have you truly not seen it?”

“If I were to wake before you I am not certain I would have the patience to simply gaze at you,” and he held out his hand in invitation.

Something nudged the periphery of the Elvenking's awareness – and his eyes flew open.

He ran toward Bard, grasping him firmly. “You are dead!”

“Thranduil – “

“You died millennia ago, and returned to me – this is not real!”

“I assure you, Thranduil – “

“ _We_ are real, but _this_ is not real!”

"Thranduil - " Bard arose from the bed, drawing Thranduil to sit beside him as he drew soothing fingers through his fine hair.  "Thranduil, look at me."

Yet the Elvenking's attention was absorbed in what he held in his hand - a stone, Bard noted. "Tell me of your token."

Thranduil looked at him then, tears in his eyes. "It is no more a token than you are - and I fear if I release it, I will release _you_."

Bard was silent, dumbfounded by this more-than-typically strange mood his love was tethered within.

And then his mouth dropped open, gripped as he was by sudden understanding.

"I would sooner fall in the fire of a dragon's breath for the rest of eternity than leave you," he said swiftly, moving his hand as though he would grasp the Olosondo as well - and when Thranduil's eyes widened, he stopped his movement in midair. "Only should you desire," he whispered.

The silence surrounding them was near-overwhelming, Bard hearing only his own breathing as he clutched any further words within his throat, any further apology seemingly stuck within, for he feared Thranduil would flee.

And when Thranduil's hand slowly grasped his, fine fingers sharing the strange stone in the grip of his own palm, Bard gasped for air, so overwhelmed was he to hear the Elvenking's whispered, "I would."

****

Whether it was many an hour or many a week that had passed, Dáin and Gimli knew not – yet here they stood at the destination, it seemed, to which the gray speech of the stones of their pathway had led them.

“Much on this journey has been dismal in appearance – yet surely this exceeds all,” Dáin said, narrowing his ghostly eyes as he looked upon the cottage that stood before them. Surely at one point it had been wondrous, glinting silver and gold as far as the eye might see, yet it had long ago fallen into disrepair. Now it simply sent muted tendrils of silver and gold weaving into the grayness surrounding them.

“Aye, yet as we’ve drawn closer the stones’ gray speech has grown more hopeful and animated – there is something within that speaks of joy.” Gimli knew the one he sought was not within – yet perhaps answers might be found that would draw him closer to Legolas.

“Shall we, laddie?” Dáin offered casually, as though they were calling upon an acquaintance of note.

“We shall,” Gimli said in turn, moving to knock upon the cottage’s door.

“Hold, laddie – surely no one is within, this is as abandoned a structure as I’ve ever seen. Its stone speaks of long-ago passage into legend and memory of whomever dwelt here, and the leaving was not a pleasant one.”

“Yet some of its song has returned,” Gimli said, and he moved to open the door.

Gimli was speechless at what he saw beyond – yet Dáin was not. “What the fuck,” he whispered as they gazed upon the Elvenking’s Halls. "How have we ended up back here?"

"Nay," Gimli said as he found his voice, "this is the home of Thranduil's folk as it was in the Greenwood - Mirkwood." And indeed it appeared to be those very same Halls, with no evidence of the certain disrepair that would have accumulated over the long centuries that had passed since the last elf had left to cross the Sundering Sea or travel elsewhere.

It was eerily silent - and somehow not a reassuring one. Particularly as they overlooked walkways so expansive that it seemed beyond reason that they would be held within a cottage so small as the one whose door had just been opened.

Yet when they turned in amazement, as if to verify what lay behind them, they saw only the long stone bridge that formed the guarded entryway to Thranduil’s cavernous keep, the hedge-lined gray pathway seemingly gone.

“Ahead it is,” Gimli said, Dáin silently agreeing – and they moved forward, gradually realizing that they no longer floated, but had formed footsteps that clattered on the stone below as they walked.

They looked upon one another’s corporeal forms, entirely confused.

“Is this an apparition, much like the one Gandalf waved away to make the pathway apparent to us?”

“I know not, lad, but onward it is. _Quietly_ , for I fear what may lay before us.”

And with a quick nod to one another, they moved forward.

“So you come to the end,” a voice boomed, its familiar tones echoing from one of the pathways that wound into the depths of the Halls.

The dwarrows bowed, acknowledging Mahal with intermingling relief and disquiet.

“Your remodeling is – most …” Dáin stopped, at a loss for words.

“We are not yet within my Halls,” the Vala replied, though he did not offer further explanation regarding their locale. “But I am indeed here to shepherd your return.”

The pained expression that crossed Gimli’s face nearly sounded as loudly as the sigh that emanated from his seemingly-embodied form.

"Is Bard well, then?" Gimli asked softly.

"I am told he finds his way - or I should hope he will. As I must lead you on yours, for my children are not meant to linger outside my home for so long."

Gimli bowed, and then straightened. "And should I refuse?"

Mahal's expression softened, tempered with compassion and full understanding - yet he could yield no more. "There have been chances aplenty - and I would not have you houseless much longer. Your soul may not bear it, for while it does not flame and burn as a mannish one would, it is not unaffected."

The Vala smiled softly. “Such is the fate of the different children of this world – and why we have cautioned against Love such as yours. You would wither here – unable to return to where you belong. Your soul is not meant to be held here for eternity – it will grow far too weary. My mansions buffer against the fading of your soul’s light.”

“Aye,” Gimli said with a frown, contemplating his Maker’s words. “Regardless, perhaps I belong here.”

Mahal smiled wistfully. “If only it was so. If only I could make it so, I would. Any solution lays outside my hands.”

He turned his head then, as though studying something in the distance, something neither of the dwarrows could see. "And yet it will not hurt to wait a bit longer. Aye, perhaps - "

"My lord?" Dáin asked politely, quelling his desire to voice fiercer words.

But the Vala had already gone.


	26. Chapter 26

"Tauriel?" Gimli whispered as the Captain of Thranduil's Guard seemed to walk briskly down an arching, winding path.

He and Dáin had wandered within for what seemed to be hours - increasingly disconcerted by the stark emptiness of Thranduil's once-busy Halls.

The elleth approached quickly, and as she moved closer, Gimli realized he had erred, a trick of the light within these halls causing her hair to seem to glow red.

Or, he knew, perhaps her tresses did glow red, a unique spiritual reflection of accumulated pains that had not yet flowed through tears of grief.

"Apologies, my Lady," he said as he bowed, Dáin following his lead even as he did not understand the cause of his warrior's deference.

Yet when he looked upon her once more - sorrow, hope, compassion intermingling throughout her slight form - he knew clearly that he had met her before. "Apologies as well, Lady Nienna - I somehow recognized you not."

"It is merely a product of this abandoned cottage of my brother's that we find ourselves in," she said softly. "Yet you must go. Come, Olórin will lead you." 

And as if out of thin air the Maia appeared from behind his Lady, swiftly beckoning them to follow.

"Gandalf, what the - "

"You may each spare me your curse words, sons of Mahal," he said fondly. "All I may say is that you should not be here - and the longer you linger within, the further away you travel. Come."

Nienna watched them depart, and then resumed her trek to the depths of the Elvenking's Halls, following a sure-footed, unsounding path to her destination.

It took her little time, for she was as fleet of foot as she was swift of mind. She did not expect those within would answer when she gently knocked upon the ornate chamber door, and she was equally unsurprised to find it swung open easily.

Surely the same could not be said of the reaction emanating from the pair who sat upon the bed.

Neither recognized her, for Bard had not regained his memories of encountering her in the Halls of Awaiting, and Thranduil had never encountered her, for she did not travel the Undying Lands as did some of her kindred.

"I have waited long for your hearts to open," she said with no mild amount of joy, her happiness a strange juxtaposition against an ever-present backdrop of simmering sorrow. And yet it was not so strange, for surely hope and joy could not exist without sorrow and grief. "Come with me," she added, holding her hand to the both of them, "and I will assist you in finding a solution to your not-small problem, just as I have done for others - should they be open to my help."

Bard took her hand instantly - and as always, Thranduil was far more reluctant. 

None was more pleased than Nienna herself when it was Bard, and not she, whose effervescent hope pulled Thranduil to follow his example.

****

“It is a beautiful evening, is it not?” Legolas murmured, his mind entirely elsewhere as he sat on the terrace of his guest chambers - and it took no will of a Maia to perceive the hollow nature of his words.

“It is indeed lovely tonight,” Aistė replied, soon moving away from their shared pretense. _You need not leave if you desire to stay._

He knew not what to say in response, yet she noticed not, her attention captured elsewhere.

"Stay," she said, "for Olórin will return before daybreak."

****

"There is no better scent than this," Olórin said as he settled himself on Legolas' terrace, pipeweed smoke wafting in the air around him as he gazed at the light of dawn.

Legolas tilted his head in the manner that reminded the Maia entirely of Thranduil.

"I refer to the flowers we sit amidst - not my smoke. Though I daresay that vapor rivals the sweetness of the blooms around us."  He set his pipe to the side, and moved to dig through his pack.

Legolas returned to studying the soft dawn hues in the sky above them, startled when he felt the cold touch of a stone settling in his hand.

"You took this from my King?" he asked incredulously, unable to move his gaze from what he knew to be the Olosondo.

Olórin reclined with sheer grace, his expression calm and serene, betraying no glimmer of the difficulty he'd had crafting a path to this very point. "I traveled far to find it - it is the second of three. Your father still bears the first."

Legolas still could not move his eyes from the stone that sat in his hand. "You are not able to tell me more, are you?"

"I am not certain I truly understand all of this myself."

Legolas implicitly understood that he would not - could not - say more. "I know not what you have done to find this, but I understand it has been much." He then moved his eyes to meet Olórin's own. "I would indeed welcome more dreams of Gimli - yet I had no need of this stone before." He looked down again, amazed to find himself frightened of the import of that which he held in his hand. _Does Gimli's soul await? Or would this bring forth dreams that would heal the ache of a wounded heart - or worsen it?_

“Legolas,” Olórin’s words broke through the cloud in his mind as powerfully as Mahal’s hammer. “There is no need for doubt – not when you have yet to explore the truth.”

"I have no doubt, Mithrandir - I know that Gimli assisted my King in finding one who is dear to him. I am certain his touching of my soul occurred, regardless of what others may say."

"You have no need to hide behind your words with me – have we not faced the most ill of ends together?" The Maia grasped his hand, his eyes seeming to pierce Legolas’ mind. “If you do not search for what you desire to find, you will never find it.” He laid a warm hand on Legolas’ shoulder, moving to speak by his ear in a whisper. “Seek it, and it may yet be found.”

Olórin stood, straightening his robe as he did so, Legolas struck by how its fabric was so very plain and majestic at the same time. “I must take my leave, for I have other pressing tasks awaiting me. My dear friend, I hope you find what you seek.”

 _And so the moment is at hand,_ Legolas thought, wondering if he was prepared to draw this chapter to a close. “Perhaps I need no closure,” he said aloud, suddenly wishing Tauriel was near, for she had ever been able to assist in taming his fickle moods.

She would not say no to this, he knew.

"Do you not?" Olórin said cryptically. "Regardless, would you not agree that your happiest moments in many a year were when you recently walked within reverie, when you savored what was provided to you instead of judging it to be lacking?"

The Maia squeezed his shoulder gently before departing, leaving Legolas to ponder his choice.

It was not a difficult one, in the end.

****

It was a memory that replayed not as it had actually occurred, yet it seemed so real that Legolas lost his typically firm hold on time and space.

They sat side by side at the edge of a nondescript Bay of Belfalas pier, companionable silence filling the air as fully as the gentle lapping of waves upon the nearby shore. To a visiting eye, they were an odd pair, dwarf and elf, yet they had been together so long and visited here often enough that none who walked this part of the world were surprised by the sight of the companions who were so at ease with one another that they completed the other’s sentences.

This day was slightly different from the others, for today Legolas’ slight trepidation bled into the peaceful surround, overcoming his joy at their reunion this very day, and eventually Gimli could take it no longer.

“What is it, elf?” he asked more gruffly than he had intended, not truly wanting to know the answer.

“I spoke with my King before I traveled here, as you know,” Legolas said softly, and to Gimli the ever-slight hint of distress in his face was as clear a sign of his dismay as anything could have been.

He grasped Legolas’ hand, and the elf intertwined their fingers, calm radiating from him once more.

“And have you decided, then?” Gimli asked, once more not wanting to know the answer, not truly.

Legolas’ response seemed as though it had been generated out of the blueness of the clear sky itself – although not really. “Have you ever thought of more?” he asked in his firm, melodious voice.

“More, in what sense?” Gimli asked evenly, cautiously, _yes_ and _no_ filling his mind, for he did, yet he did not want to know if the elf did not.

Legolas turned to him, gazing at him with all of the love that he bore towards his unlikely, most dear friend, the one companion he could not bear to imagine being without. “Between us,” he answered.

Gimli smiled widely, a mixture of pleasure and relief, and grasped his hand more tightly. “Of course,” and he turned back to gazing at the sea.

“And?” Legolas asked eventually.

“I would want it more than anything, and my reservations are surely the same as your own,” he said as his heart sang, knowing there had been no reason to be afraid of discussing what was unspoken between them, satisfied that it was finally out in the open.

“So what should we do, then?”

“You will not marry, as your father had wished you to?” Gimli asked with a raised brow.

“He only wishes that I not be alone when he sails, for surely you know that he is so very weary. But he does not want his solution to be a cause for my own discontent.”

Gimli grinned. The Elvenking would never cease to surprise him. “I would do whatever you wish of me. And yet….” he paused, for he knew the greatest source of Legolas’ unease. “There is the matter of your passage to Valinor. And the reception amidst our people.”

“Our people gossip such about us regardless. And as for Valinor, my Adar said it should not matter. That it would not and will not matter.” Yet his Adar had wed an elleth, and such fit well within the laws and customs of the lands to which the Elvenking would soon sail – and even still, Thranduil could scarcely believe he would soon walk the lands of the Eldar. Yet his fëa was too worn to continue to walk the lands this side of the Sundering Sea.

“You told him?” Gimli said, a twinkle in his eye.

“Am I your One?” Legolas asked after nodding his response, slightly surprised at his boldness – yet he would not have this smolder unspoken between them.

Legolas moved abruptly out of reverie then, the answer he sought - the answer he yearned for - falling frustratingly outside of his grasp.

Night was full upon him now, and he saw more fully that his hröa had not left this part of Irmo's gardens while his fëa had wandered in reverie. His heart soared when he saw Olórin in the distance, glimmering with his uniquely white light. _Thank Lady Elbereth that he returns so soon!_   Legolas moved towards the Maia, intent on asking him yet again for answers, for he was troubled and knew the former Wizard could assist in soothing his myriad emotions, even if he could not provide full answers to his queries.

As he moved closer, the Olosondo grew cold and heavy in his hand, the locket around his neck warm, and he saw that Olórin was not alone.

The Maia stood on a wide path lined with hedges and trees - a path Legolas instantly recognized from his time in joint reverie with his Adar - and a mortal soul shimmered beside him - no, _two_ mortal souls.

No small portion of him wondered if one was the mortal his Adar had encountered during that definitive fëa-wandering - and yet a larger part of him _knew_ it was not.

He gripped the Olosondo more tightly, wondering if he should release his hold on the stone - for surely that might provide a small test of reality?  Yet he had not touched it during his previous experiences, those in which he had thought he's touched Gimli's soul, and he knew its influence would not dissipate simply because of further physical proximity.

And he would risk being thrown away from this path as had occurred when he'd traveled by the side of his King.

Whether this was real, or an elaborate dream, he could not say, yet as he moved closer, he found he did not care - at least, he did not care enough to cease his forward movement.

"Gimli?" he whispered as he stood near the hedge that marked the edge of the path, gazing at the soul he loved more than any other.


	27. Chapter 27

"Is this a dream?" Legolas asked, unable to tear his gaze away from the glowing spirit directly before him.  "Gimli?" he asked once more, certain yet unsure all at once.

He tightened his hold on the Olosondo.  Whether he wandered entirely within reverie, or stood with the full awareness of his hröa in the waking world, he could not be certain.  Unable to decide what to do next, he was still as one of Estë's magnificently-crafted statues, the wisps of vapor that formed his fëa providing a sparkling contrast to the grayness of the path that he stood in front of.

It was then that he felt the touch of Gimli's soul upon his own - and a voice spoke within his fëa.  _Go to him_ \- and he wondered if it was Olórin, or the stone within his hand - or someone, _something_ , else.  Yet he could not - _would not_ \- pull his eyes away from Gimli to cast a glimpse at who else might be nearby. 

 _Come_ , the voice sounded again, and suddenly his fëa passed seamlessly over a ridge of deep banks and through the barrier of hedges to arrive at Gimli's side.

 _Gimli?_ he asked, the question he held not formed with speech – not even fully formed in thought – but spoken nonetheless in a more elemental manner through the bond of friendship he shared with the dwarrow.

 _Aye, it is I_ was the reply, spoken in turn not with the formalities of speech but through that which had bound them together, much weaker than a soul-bond between those joined in eternal partnership, but a bond of sorts nonetheless. 

Legolas was overcome with an unbearable need to _touch_ , to _embrace_ \- to never let go.

It seemed Gimli felt similarly, for Legolas found himself cradled in a manner he could not easily describe, his fëa twining with Gimli's own, tendrils of gold winding with those of red, and the glow could have been seen a league away had there been any to view it – had this pathway dedicated to the travel of young mortal souls to the realm of dreams not been closed and hidden by Irmo himself long ago.

****

Legolas was flushed, whether from wine or otherwise, Gimli knew not, yet the sparkle in his far-seeing eyes was one that the son of Glóin certainly knew he never wanted to see diminished.

The dwarrow thought the mossy earth on which he sat might swallow him entirely when Legolas drew impossibly close, staring into his eyes with much more than a simple question of _want_ within.

Striving against every ounce of good sense that lay within his muscular form, Gimli kissed him – sweetly, yet certainly not chastely, for his longing could bear being hidden no more.

Some portion of the dwarrow wondered if this was not entirely _real_ – and for the first time in his life and that which lay beyond, selfishness overcame him, and it seemed not to matter, not entirely. He did not want to let go.

“Gimli?” Legolas breathed when the dwarf stopped, gripping him even more tightly were it possible, as though to keep his dearest companion in place should he decide to retreat.

“I fear the majesty of your presence has overtaken my sense of reason,” he said slowly, not able to say more.

“I most certainly do not,” Legolas replied breathlessly, his smile fey, “for I have waited for _this_ for far too long.”

Gimli gently touched the elf's ever-young face – even _still_ it was so strange that skin could be so smooth, yet his soul knew this wasn’t so strange after all, for here was his match and nothing could be more treasured.

So treasured that he could not selfishly hold him here.

“We cannot stay like this,” he murmured, his fingertips tracing the smoothness of Legolas’ cheek, coming to a realization of what _was_ and what was _not_ with relative speed, for all of Mahal's children had such gifts in the perception of reality.

Legolas studied him intently, and it did not take long for him to come to his own point of realization through their subtle bond of friendship – and he pulled back, hurt etched across his face, the stone he held suddenly an unbearable weight in his hand. “You do not desire me.”

What Legolas sensed was misread, an artifact of the vagueness of what he sensed - but perhaps moreso a product of his own insecurity - and Gimli recognized it as such, seeking to quell his hurt. “If it were my choice, I would never leave your side again, yet I see not how it is possible. This is not a place that we might dwell, half within reality and half without.”

They were interrupted then by Legolas’ perception of a distant rustling in the wood beyond, and he motioned to Gimli to remain silent.

The trudging drew nearer, as did the voice of the footsteps' owner. “Come lads – your time runs short. The Lady may place hope within your grasp yet – but you can bloody linger here no longer.”

“Dáin Ironfoot?” Legolas said with a frown, turning to Gimli with an incredulous expression. “But – “

“The Lady sent me in her stead, for she is occupied with your bloody father. Come. Gandalf awaits to shepherd our travel to her halls.”

"But -" Legolas looked back and forth between the pair, wondering at the impossibility of this situation. _Surely_ this was a sign that his heart's desire was simply that, and he began to question the reality of that which surrounded him.

"Don't you go all doubtful on us, laddie - not _now_ ," Dáin said sternly.

And while his belief could not help but flicker, it did not extinguish in their steadfast presence. _I would not come to regret this_ , his faith leaping as he would in battle, and he rose, moving towards Dáin.

Gimli did not immediately follow, yet as hurt and anger began to overtake Thranduil's son, _something_ passed between this other pairing of subject and king - an unspoken battle of sorts that Legolas did not fully understand.

The son of Glóin needed no command from his King, simply a nudge, for while he could deny his own heart for eternity, he could not do the same to the heart of the One he loved more than any other.

This he now knew in truth.

****

When Gimli’s soul next woke fully, he was filled with memory of both that which had been and that which had truly never taken place, not whilst he had lived.

He knew he’d never before been where he was now – a dark place that seemed to emanate sadness from every pore, and he shivered as his soul seemed to absorb grief held within the air itself.

Did he now sit in Mandos’ Halls, awaiting Bard’s acceptance of his Doom, their journey complete?

 _Nay, Master Dwarf_ came words spoken within his soul, and he turned to see the glowing form that stood nearby.

 _Gandalf!_ he replied, filled with relief, the sight of the Maia triggering recollection of his presence on the hedge-lined path.

And of Legolas.

Had he a heart in his now-immaterial form, it would have stopped at the thought of his dear friend. Even so, Olórin recognized his fear of eternal separation from the elven Prince, his fear that which had been not fully resolved between them would never be untangled.

The dwarrow spirit was enveloped then, warmth permeating his being, his fretful state calmed by the Maia – and another even more powerful.

 _Come_ , the other voice within his soul called, _your path has been long and winding, and your earned decision now lays before you._

He traveled cold corridors of granite, led by the ever-bright Maia, and he knew not who he passed, though others were indeed there.

Olórin ceased their short journey when he sighted his Lady, her gray hood reminding Gimli of the one borne by the Wizard of the same color who now stood by his side.

"Welcome," she said, her tone a complex intermingling of melancholy and courage.

She raised a hand, and the dwarrow spirit found himself able to speak.

“What –“ he began, and she took pity upon his state of confusion.

“Your journey would not have been possible without the aid of my brother Irmo, for my kindred would not agree to my plea in finding solace for Bard the Bowman in a true sense, to allow your souls to wander our lands as you yourself did during life.” She looked pointedly at Olórin before continuing. “My loyal one brought some of my kindred to the place of outrage when he showed you what truly was, even if you did not understand it as so – “ and she referred to what must be Irmo's shuttered, hidden pathway, this Gimli knew, “yet ever has he been the one amongst us who has the interests of Eru’s children most clearly woven through his motives, regardless of how hampered he has been throughout time, even as he is hampered now.”

Olórin bowed his head in deference to his Lady, and she formed the gesture in turn.

She then focused her emotion-laden eyes on the study of Gimli's innermost longing. “When it was decided that Bard of Dale would be released from my brother Mandos' keeping, our Council laid many a condition upon him – and upon you, as his guide. Yet you found your way, and he his, and now a decision awaits you. Should you truly desire, I will attempt to help you find a path through the impossibility that lays before you, though I cannot guarantee an outcome.”

She moved to the side – and Gimli saw for the first time that Legolas stood behind her.

The elf's smile was as wide and determined as any Gimli had ever witnessed, his fëa blazing with untold joy – yet subtly dampened by apprehension.

“A winding road if there ever was one,” Olórin said with a smile. “You touched one another within his reverie, standing as you were on a path crafted by Lord Irmo himself – a path of dreams intended to bring joy and enchantment to the hearts of young mortals. Yet it was shuttered for eternity long ago, its very existence now an unbelieved wisp of myth. It was the only place connected to the Undying Lands that the Council would allow you to travel, for they would not - could not - permit mortal souls to simply wander Aman. Yet now you stand within Nienna’s Halls, not within one anothers’ memories, and that which stands before you is no longer spoken through the language of Lord Irmo’s dreams. Just as she has done for others, my Lady has fought for you to be at one another’s side past the silver veil – and resolve that which lays unfinished between you.”

Before Gimli could ask more, the Maia and his Lady disappeared, and both elf and dwarf wondered if they had simply imagined what had passed.

And all the same Gimli, for one, knew this was real – and his King’s voice echoed within his being.

He could not return to his Maker’s mansions deemed a coward in matters of the heart by one he respected more than any other.

He would not return to his Maker’s mansions leaving that which he had buried, buried anew.

Yet before he could speak what lay within the core of his soul, the Prince formed words, aided by the hand of Lady Nienna.

“This is the strangest dream,” Legolas said.

“Nay, this is no dream,” Gimli replied, and Legolas felt a fluttering within his fëa that nearly overcame him.

“In that case,” Legolas said, still not quite believing _this_ was so, “I had the strangest dreams, where you told me I was your One. And - ”

Beneath Legolas' light-hearted exterior, his expression reflecting the sharing of a musing with a fond friend, lay long-denied hope – and fear – hidden deep within his soul.

Gimli read it as easily as he could sort the clarity of gemstones.

_Mahal’s forge, Dáin was right._

“Legolas,” he said, nearly overtaken by emotion, “there is no other for me than you – there will be no other for me. Would that I had not been so....would that you not have been so – “

Yet he never finished that which he meant to say, captured as he was in the strangest variation of a kiss that he could ever have imagined, a kiss soul-to-fëa that expressed far more than bodily-based words or actions ever could.

 

  
  


 

And Gimli knew now what he had known near the beginning of this journey, that which he had tried, yet failed, to deny to himself – that if there could be found a way, he would never leave this elf’s – _his elf’s_ – side again.

He had no need to gaze beseechingly at the Lady who had granted them their privacy, for she had already read his his heart's desire - and Legolas' - and the light touch of her cautioned reassurance from elsewhere in her halls buttressed and fanned his fierce determination to permanently move from the realm of fanciful wishes to that of the solidity of eternal closeness.

_****_

Bard awoke slowly, fearful to open his eyes, filled with worry that his recall of recent events consisted of a smattering of illusions, caught as he was between current reality, memories, and dreams.

It was dim within this chamber – if one could call it such, for it reminded him more of Mandos's Halls than it did a chamber built by any of Eru's children.

 _Mandos!_ Had he returned to the Halls of Awaiting, having found some semblance of willingness to mend the past from Thranduil?

Had his apology been accepted - his task considered complete?

If so, it felt more hollow than he would have predicted, his thirst only whetted, certainly not quenched.

_Yet if he is well, his heart mended from that which we both tore asunder, that is all I might ask, is it not?  
_

“Bloody hell, he awakens! At last!” Bard instantly recognized the booming voice, and he wondered for a moment if they had returned to the hedge-lined pathway.

“Durin’s balls, I’d wondered if I’d be forced back to my Maker’s mansions before you woke your sorry arse,” the dwarf’s warmly-tinged words matched with a firm slap to the shoulder – more correctly an attempted slap, for there were no illusions of bodily form placed upon souls housed within Nienna’s Halls, no masterful reconstruction of _life as-was_ similar to that provided by Irmo within the realm of dreams or Aulë within his mansions.

“What – “ Bard began as he took in his surroundings, “have we simply exchanged a world of gray for this one of charcoal?”

“Nay, you’ve been provided the beginnings of a blessing upon a blessing, one that we hope will be tended and resolved by Eru himself.”

“Ah, at last," came another voice before Bard could form a reply. "Bard son of Girion, this exchange, as it were, was duly fought for and earned.” Olórin stood nearby, his majestic form even more so in these Halls that seemed to exhale grief and hope within the same breath. “Your journey has been a long one – this conclusion well-deserved.” He did not add that he’d had many a doubt along the way about its successful completion – nor did he disclose his own difficult tasks within.

“Come then,” Dáin said, breathless with anticipation, “your pretty elf awaits - and another sight that I truly never dreamt I would witness on this side of eternity - or even on the other, after the world is remade.”

The King under the Mountain scarcely could resist following Bard to his destination, held back only by the Maia who stood at his side. “This lays within their hands, as it were.”

“Aye – yet I would see this through before my Maker arrives to shepherd my return to his Halls.”

“As would I – as would I.” Olórin agreed, restrained hope simmering beneath his pensive expression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art credit to [hideincarnate](http://hideincarnate.livejournal.com/profile) (tumblr: [freetilltheendoftheline](http:/freetilltheendoftheline.tumblr.com/))  
> 


	28. Chapter 28

Had he been posed the question at any time in his life prior to this, Legolas would not have foreseen that his King would willingly stay within Halls that held a share of Aman's wounded, forsaking the duties of his realm.

Yet here the Elvenking was, awaiting the return of a mannish soul to their current form of consciousness.

Thranduil's son now understood the role Gimli had played as guide during these unexpected travels - as well as the guidance the dwarf had received in turn - yet he still did not comprehend the full extent of, or reason for, the rupture between his Adar and his mortal spouse.

He wasn't certain his Adar understood it either, yet from his limited words Legolas knew the blame was mutual, and entirely different from what had kept Gimli from pledging his heart to him, and he to Gimli.

How all had now changed.

"You will bond to him, then, and remain here?" Thranduil said, uncertain what was best for his son, yet knowing he would not see him forsake his heart's desire should he wish it be so.

He was still overcome by the strangeness of the situation, the discomfort inherent in being without his bodily form - and even still, he was entirely unwilling to leave. As such, he knew he could not possibly command Legolas to leave these halls - not without the One he held so dear.

"Yes, Mithrandir said he would instruct us on the avowals, for it is different for fëar not housed within hröar."

Thranduil would have choked on his response had his soul been currently within its housing. "Is that not too private - "

Legolas stayed any further words, his fëa glowing affectionately. "There will be nothing untoward about it, I - "

Yet he was interrupted by the twinges of light that passed through Thranduil, the Elvenking's eyes wide with anticipation. "He finally awakens," he whispered.

His words were quickly followed by Gimli appearance, the red-tinged soul of the dwarrow floating into this part of Nienna's Halls as though he was racing to his destination. "He awakens! Dáin and Gandalf are at his side as we speak. Aye, it is old news to you, I see," he said, easily recognizing the realization that had settled within Thranduil's fea.

"Aye, indeed," Thranduil said kindly to the dwarven soul who had brought such profound contentment to his son. "If you would - " and he gestured for the pair to leave. 

"Are you certain you would be alone? Your history in such matters -" Legolas was interrupted then by Gimli, the dwarf pulling his One away after embracing the Elvenking soul-to-fëa.  

"Come - it is for them to sort out, and beside that, they cannot travel far should things go awry, can they?" 

Both were not surprised, not at this juncture, to hear Thranduil's next words. "Should it be my choice, nothing shall go awry." Anxiously, he added, "Should he decide it be so." 

The respective Lords of Aglarond and Ithilien then departed, wondering themselves what would happen next, for Bard's soul had been in its state of slumber longer than theirs - and all wondered if his memories would be lost once more, his every impulse to flee to Mandos upon his awakening. 

They quickly learned from the exuberant King under the Mountain that it was not so - that Bard sought Thranduil with every ounce of his being. It was a fact that delighted Dáin nearly as much as his viewing of Gimli and Legolas, for his first-hand knowledge of their joy would sustain him and his kin when the son of Glóin did not return to his Maker's Halls, Mahal and Eru willing.

****

Bard had no difficulty locating Thranduil, for the tenuous bond between them had strengthened enough through the events that had passed thus far - and each of them knew that the other desired reconciliation, for memory of what had led them to this place remained lodged within their souls.

Still, both were filled with apprehension, each uncertain of the other, and it led them to be reluctant to close the final gap between them when they were within sight of one another.

In the end Thranduil acted first, as he knew Bard had done so many a time, and he would not have the mannish soul contemplate potential rejection any longer.  "If you would have me, I would repair that which was broken between us."

Bard's soul glowed with a bittersweet happiness, knowing once the repair was made he would be recalled to Mandos, his Doom pronounced - and then eternally parted from the Elvenking when he was forced to travel beyond the circles of the world.

"It need not be so," Thranduil said, easily reading his worry. "Nienna has offered to house Gimli here for as long as she is able - and she has made the offer to you as well."

"And you would visit me?" Bard said, his soul brightening with anticipation, and then falling into the beginnings of sorrow when Thranduil shook his head and spoke "No."

The Elvenking's fëa flared then, burning brightly. "No - I would stay with you, as long as we are able."

Bard looked at him in wonder, and Thranduil did likewise - and while there was much left to be discussed, to be resolved - in this moment, they were content.

And each held a kindled hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the making of amends need not be the end.


	29. Chapter 29

~o~o~o~ Epilogue ~o~o~o~

Even though much time had passed such as it was counted in Aman, she’d not developed the casual acceptance of Thranduil and Legolas’ strange fate that so many within her forest had. The proffered explanations for their state of stasis never settled within her, for she still did not fully understand _why_ or _how_ or even _what_ _was_ , not truly.

Reasons for her subtle restlessness were discounted by those around her. Her queries were masterfully, vaguely answered by Mithrandir, so much so that his evasiveness eluded her consciousness. The Maia’s reassurance that neither King nor Prince had met with evil ends was sufficient to quell occasional waxing of apprehension and worry, even if she never fully came to terms with what seemed to be. _Means and ends are not always ours to know,_ he would say softly, compelling her to understand that _here_ , in the Undying Lands, certainly not all functioned in the same manner as it did in the lands of mortals.

It was not something she pondered often, for there seemed to be little use in doing so – even now, the duties of the Captain of the Guard occupied many an hour, and she was never one for fruitless pursuits.

And at the same time she wondered and pondered on occasion – this eve being one of those times, and perhaps her fëa knew what lay ahead when her mind did not.

“Ah, there you are,” a voice interrupted suddenly from below, the flame-haired warrior recognizing it without needing to gaze upon its owner. “I am ready to depart, but cannot do so without you!”

“And to where do you travel, dear Mithrandir?” Tauriel asked fondly. “And how are you so very ready to take your leave when I had not realized that you had returned to the wood in the first place?”

Olórin deftly climbed the short distance from the ground to the branch upon which Tauriel sat, returning her broad smile of welcome.

“I have need of your assistance,” and Tauriel did not fail to notice the twinkle within his eyes that seemed to reflect an eagerness firing through his fair form.

“Another adventure for us, is it?” she asked happily, for one and the same assisted greatly in holding her spirit above any lassitude that might encompass it.

“Indeed,” the Maia replied. “Should you wish it be so.”

“Of course,” she said nonchalantly, not instantly recognizing the seriousness with which he had spoken. “Let me summon my second to transfer my command, and we shall leave on the morrow.”

“This path will be unlike any other,” he said, gentle and stern all at once.

A portion of her was confused – yet a larger portion welcomed a change, for there was little left in these lands that she had not yet explored, and she had long grown restless for adventure in the absence of the Prince of her forest, for he'd been her welcome companion over the vast majority of their long years.

“I would welcome it,” she replied, and while she knew he had not disclosed the full import of what would lie ahead, she also knew that Mithrandir would not lead her astray.

He nodded, studying her for a moment, and then they turned their attention to mundane matters, idle talk amidst rustling leaves of his travels and the happenings within Oromë’s forest since they had last met.

****

“You brought me hence to teach me more of grief?” She was utterly confused as they stood before Nienna’s Halls, the sound of the sea crashing below a welcome distraction from the gloom that seemed to emanate from the Vala’s home. “To bear it more fully?”

“No,” he said as softly in return. “While one can never learn enough of compassion, you have always borne a sufficient amount within. I brought you here for a reason of a different sort – yet before we go further, I must have your word that you will tell no other what lies within, either now or when and if you choose to take your leave.”

Such a request was somewhat puzzling, yet there was no reluctance in her agreement, for she had learned long ago that she could trust Mithrandir completely – and he her.

“Come, then,” he said, extending his hand, and they walked across the rocky cliff together, Tauriel shivering not from the cool ocean air, but from the sadness that seemed to permeate the land around them.

“Does she wish to talk to me of Kili?” she asked as they drew closer, the question a lingering one that surfaced when she began to wonder - and worry - _what_ the reclusive, ever-grieving Vala might speak of with regard to her dwarven love.

Her heart pounded as she stood before the entrance to Nienna’s halls, Olórin’s wordless response an affirmation of her question – and yet she felt strangely encouraged, excited almost, by what she witnessed within his expression.

She felt the spirits around them when they passed the threshold - she, too, now walking with only her fëa as some of the others within did, her hröa protected and tended by Nienna's Maiar until body and soul might be reunited. Some within these halls grieved, others did not, and the latter surprised her, for she would not imagine that any held within Nienna's halls would seem satisfied and content.

Even Nienna’s Maiar were a strange juxtaposition of sadness and joy, grief and hope.

All the same, none exemplified this more than the Lady herself.

It was now that Tauriel clearly saw Nienna’s work in what had passed within her own life thus far, for she _knew_ the Vala had held her grief within her hands when she herself thought her very heart would break.

She bowed, grateful to this majestic being she had never met, yet clearly owed much.

“There is no accounting due me,” the gray-cloaked Vala said as she read Tauriel’s thoughts. “Yet finally your path leads you here, for while it has been true, it has not been easy, either on your side or mine. Though thankfully it did not necessitate travel through all that lay hidden within my brother Irmo's realm.”

Nienna did not respond to Tauriel's perplexed stare and explained no further, simply allowing the situation to speak for itself, presenting One before Tauriel that she had long convinced herself she would never gaze upon again.

In another section of the Vala’s halls, the once-King of Dale and his cherished Elven counterpart were allowed to feel her joy, for together they had long hoped for this very moment. How could it not be so, for surely those who had simply fallen victim to fate deserved the same companionship as those who had lost their way?

Yet their gratification held not a candle to the excitement of another elf and dwarf pair. Despite previous instruction to the contrary, Legolas and Gimli - their souls long vowed and bound together as closely as any others within or without Nienna's halls - did not patiently await their eventual summoning to this reunion. Instead they moved with all-speed to witness it firsthand prior to their planned arrival, for they would not wait in sharing the joy of ones they held so dearly within their own souls.

Nienna did not stop them, for she knew Tauriel and her One welcomed the intrusion – for a time, at least.

She knew not if her own spirit could eternally sustain the mortal ones housed within her halls should Eru not eventually rule in favor of the pleas she had made through Manwë.  _Yet would they have been buttressed as they have been thus far if not for Eru's grace?_ came Olórin's response to her unspoken musing. In his reply, she knew there was wisdom.

The Vala and her Maia quietly took their leave from this joyous reunion, seeking the view through expansive windows that overlooked the Sea. "There is no greater refreshment of our courage and strength than _this_ , the finding of some degree of solace and hope in that which is seemingly without," she said aloud.

"Indeed - and yet another path that wound in a way I would not have predicted," Olórin said, equally pleased at the happiness he had assisted, well aware that while this outcome was far from what might be expected or even considered ideal, it was most welcome.

She nodded, and then turned her tireless attention to the Sea, for Ulmo had news of the echoes of yet another being across the Sundering Expanse whose grief held hope within, even if the choices promised by a continuum of gray were not yet seen by the one who might still choose - or even by herself.

"It is as the elven Prince said himself so long ago - few can foresee whither their road will lead them, till they come to its end."

And as the darkness of night gradually encroached upon these Halls of sorrow and grief, those within knew that for now - and Eru willing, for evermore - sorrow need not be held primary within their souls, in no small part due to the mercy granted them, even if the road should be winding and long.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For msgeekstyle - I think not quite the ending you'd wanted, but the one I'd had in mind....

No words had yet passed his lips that _truly_ described the essence of the world around him – though this was not _truly_ a world, not in the traditional sense, as the occasional other would point out.

He tended to ignore them, for others would be as they were, and there was simply too much here to enjoy. To appreciate, more fully than he had ever appreciated before.

No, words seemed paltry in comparison to _here_ , where everything was simply – yet not so simply – _more_.

And so he stood on the riverbank, the waters flowing more crisply, more transparent and blue, than any he’d ever seen in any of his travels, the sky more clear and – _perfect_ – than any sky he’d ever had the pleasure to sit beneath.

Yet this was not what captured his attention on this fine day, _fine_ not being a fitting word, but a word of sorts, nonetheless.

He’d arrived here in the early morn, intent on feasting upon the peacefulness of daybreak whilst he gathered his favorite edibles, ripe amidst blades of grass that gleamed with morning dew.

And when he was hailed from beyond, by those he did not initially recognize, he nearly died of surprise – perhaps would have, had it been a possibility.

****

His recovery from his faint long-past, he strode up to the ever-familiar hobbit hole that lay in a secluded glade – and forgot his manners, bursting past its threshold, so intent was he on finding the master of the house.

Said hobbit was hard at work, fully absorbed by his newest hobby – etchings made in the strangely ephemeral glass that could be found in the mannish city-of-sorts not far away.

The work was difficult, the materials rare, and as such interruption would surely be frowned upon – yet just as certainly could not avoided _now_.

“Mr. Frodo …”

There was no response, so intent was the hobbit on his work.

“Mr. Frodo….”

Still no response, but simply the scratching of a tool upon the glass.

He waited as patiently as he could, though he hopped from foot to foot, and it was this, not the words, that drew Frodo’s attention – at least a portion of his focus which belonged to his mind, for his eyes did not leave his work.

“What is it, Sam?” he asked, gently, kindly.

Eyes wide, Samwise Gamgee considered what to say. “I reckon you might not believe this – but - well, there ain't no way 'round it - I’m back from gathering my mushrooms, and, make no mistake – “

He paused, his news too incredible – he felt faint again, and had to find his bearings.

“And what, dear Sam?” Frodo prompted patiently, still not shifting his eyes from his etching. “Did you gather enough for dinner? Or did you find yet another new variety? Hopefully not one that makes my uncle dizzy again.” A light-hearted chuckle accompanied his words.

“No sir, I reckon that’s _not_ it. That's not it at all, and -....” He paused, still unsure what to say - or, more correctly, how to say it.

“And –“ Frodo prompted again, finally moving his eyes to look upon Sam – and the etching tool fell to the floor, Frodo Baggins nearly with it - had not he been caught by one and the same that had caught Sam as he toppled to the ground by the riverbank.

****

“I’ve hurried here as fast as I could after the raven gave me your message, but I still don’t see why you’ve fussed – “

Bilbo Baggins nearly became the third fainting casualty of the day, yet he did not succumb to the impulse.

Instead, he moved closer to his nephew’s table, and pragmatically counted the additional seats.

He hadn’t brought enough food, and that just wouldn’t do.

And then reality hit him full on, and he embraced the ones he knew well – and the ones he knew far less well.

It seemed as though it were accounting, almost – Kili - Kili! - and Tauriel, Legolas and Gimli –

_Thranduil and Bard?!?_

But before he could ask any of the many questions that came to his mind, he was embraced by the last – and now, _now_ he knew Eru had indeed listened to all of his pleas.

“Took you long enough,” he mumbled.

Thorin Oakenshield said nothing, simply grasping him more tightly in turn.

_~~~ The end (for now) ~~~_


End file.
